soft-humming-moon

[soft-humming-moon]

Sketches of a Caelitran Hymn

i dont actually have anything to preface with. this was all written in the span of a month, and I wanted to challenge myself by writing a novel's worth within that time constraint. if you like fantastical stories and divinity, this might be nice to read. go nuts.

Chapter 1

Death is less than nothing. Death has no reference on which to base nothing on. An empty cup—which contains only air—exists in its boundary. At least, that's what I believe it to be.

As my eyes shot open, I could perceive something. The smell of musty wood wafts through my blackened prison as the only noise I can hear is my own breathing. I barely had to move my hands far—my joints ached with inactivity.

My next impulse was to make as much noise as I could. I slammed my fists against the ceiling of my space as hard as I could. Splinters were the least of my concern. I screamed as loud as I could. Whatever finds me next can fix my hoarse throat later. Beyond that, all I had to do was hope. There's only so much noise you can make with only your body. I was buried with nothing. I don't want to die again.

To the best of my observations, my memories were intact. As I lulled myself into a monotonous routine, I skimmed through my library of thoughts. Everything was intact. It was miraculous to say I've survived without any lasting effects. But why am I alive? I can barely recall any reason for me to live on.

Except the lily.

As soon as my mind locked on to the five-petaled flower, I could hear a metallic clank against the top of my box. Faint sunlight found its way through the cracks of my shoddy coffin. Suddenly, I stopped screaming. The light burned through my retinas—daylight. My hands fell to my sides as the pain synchronized with my beating heart.

The coffin slowly creaked open. A pair of fingers curled its way through the underside of the lid. As I was acquainted with the dark gray skies, a shaded figure blocked the center of my vision. The sun was fully eclipsed by the man's head. Its radiant rays splayed across his silhouette to form a brief halo.

"Autumn?" I heard them speak, "Is that you?"

Their voice was unrecognizable. I've never heard anyone with the same depth in their voice. Even if there was a faint scratchy nature to their voice, it was almost comforting to hear.

The clouds swallowed the sun whole. The first detail I focused on was their clothes. For someone who knew my name, they wore nothing of familiarity. Their lightly soaked gray jacket limped against their body as they leaned down. The only notable feature I could glean from their face is the brief tuffs of brown hair which poked out from his hoodie.

However, around their neck was a glistening piece of jewelry. A string of fine, golden beads wrapped around a thin string. At the nadir of its craft was a cluster of circles. Ironically, its icon was the only familiar aspect of his appearance.

The Groundskeeper let out a weary sigh. They quickly pulled the shovel out from my grave. Once they reached out their hand, I naturally pushed against the coffin's wooden floor to meet in the middle. Once they held a firm grasp on me, the Groundskeeper fixed their posture as they tugged me out from my hole.

It was hard to pull my attention to reality. My mind wandered off and clung to facts about graveyards. People who tend to cemeteries are typically called Groundskeepers. Their main goal is to keep the land tidy and to rescue those who were buried alive. Or, in my case, revived. Every grave has a dowsing wand which detects your soul. These wands are notorious for how unpredictable they can be. Without any known cause, they'll continuously ping off a signal. To adapt to this, graveyards were built where these signals were the lowest. This alleviated much of the Groundskeeper's job.

Thinking on it now, I may know the reason why these rods went off at random.

"Ah, you're probably not the woman I'm looking for." Their voice snapped me out of my wandering daze. "You've been preserved well. Nice set of clothes, smooth skin; I'd never guess you died to begin with."

I saw their mouth widen. They were happy with their little remark. On top of their grin, I can faintly hear a sharp exhale of air break against their teeth. They continued on. "The wildlife did a number on you, though. Coffin's made of cheap wood and it doesn't has a wand. Maybe you're a dryad? Maybe you're from the Woodlands. "

The Groundskeeper reached down to brush off the loose fauna off my body. Even as he worked to clean off the leaves, he resumed his monologue after a brief pause.

"If you lived in the Woodlands, then how did you end up here?"

I wasn't sure where the Woodlands was in relation to where I was now. The only hints which clued me in were the darkened skies and the open horizon. I couldn't see any mountains or giant trees. All I could glance was a quaint village a few long minutes away. It never hurt to ask. "Where is here?"

"Where is here? Don't you know what town we're in?"

"No, I don't. I just woke up."

"Right, I should've guessed that."

All I could muster myself to do in the moment was to roll my eyes.

"You're at the Temple Coasts. It's a small port village near the Ampersandi Latitude. More generally, you're in the Crown."

"The Crown, of course. Honestly, I should've known with how barren these fields are."

"That's what I like! You've got the nice, open countryside to your beck and call. I used to call this place home thirty years back."

Thirty years ago? The idea of the Groundskeeper's age struck me. Was he in his 40s?

"Right, I'm supposed to do a mental check with returners. Let's start off simple. What's the full name of the Crown?"

"Crown of the World."

"Great! And what continent is the Crown of the World part of?"

"Caelitra."

"So far so good. What's the current age we're in?"

"Age of Heroes. One hundred years after the Age of Legends and One thousand years after the Age of Myths."

"At least you weren't dead for long. What year is it?"

My mind stumbled.

"Wait, that's not a good test. When did you die?"

"One thousand two hundred five years After Catastrophe."

"Well, that's convenient. You've been dead for thirty years then."

It took me a moment to process what they said. Thirty years? That would make the current year 1235 AC.

"What's your name, again? Sorry, I didn't catch it the first time around."

"Oh, my name's Autumn."

I saw their body quickly tense up. Even as their face was enshrouded in shade, it almost felt like I startled them.

It took them a minute to fully compose themselves. From the recesses of their coat's pockets, they pulled out a pocket-sized book with the words INFINITUM TABULA engraved on its burgundy cover.

"Okay, so you're the person I'm supposed to be looking for." The Groundskeeper let out a sigh of relief. "Good! This makes my life ten thousand times easier."

Distant thunder echoed as he swept through his pocket book. Off by the horizon was a faint streak of lightning. It's form was near perpendicular to the ground. After it touched down, heavy rainfall engulfed the surrounding area in a translucent curtain of downpour.

The Groundskeeper swiftly brought their hand up without warning. In a quick strike, he struck the tip of their middle finger against their thumb in a snap. "I should've asked you if you know who Skymarcher is, but I think that's common knowledge by now."

I raised an eyebrow in response. The name was familiar. I couldn't pin the reason why.

"Did you know they used to name large structures after him before the Catastrophe? They taught me that while I was in training as an altar boy."

There was nothing of value in his words. I may be a sucker for information, but it was hard for me to believe in some words from a stranger.

"Right, well," The Groundskeeper continued, "I'm sure you'd like to hear the bad news first. From what I've been told about you..."

His voice trailed off. A few seconds passed before I heard a repeated set of loud clicks with his wrinkled hands placed upon the forefront of my vision.

I couldn't tell if he was mad or playing with me. "Hey, look at me. Not the rainstorm. If I'm about to hand over the biggest news of your life, I don't want them to be distracted. Look at me."

Begrudgingly, I fixed my attention from the rainstorm back to the Groundskeeper. It was hard to pinpoint an emotion with his oversized hoodie.

Despite his shaded visage, I could feel his stare pierce through my soul. "This isn't your world. You never existed."

Again, another dubious fact. I audibly scoffed as the idea quickly passed through my mind. However, I felt his hand clasp against my shoulder.

"You were never born," The Groundskeeper spoke with a low, monotone inflection, "No one knows who you are, not even your friends. If it wasn't for me, you'd be completely alone in your new life."

Still, nothing. I mustered up the fakest look of horror I could spread across my face. He seemed to buy it well enough to switch topics. "Now I have to know, what did you see when you died? Was it pitch black? Was there a heaven? From the way He spoke of you, I don't think you would've seen a heaven."

"Hey!" I tensed my fingers up as I raised my hand. After a second of thought, my hand immediately stopped and slowly lowered back down to my side. "You might be right. I'm not sure heaven looks like what I had to go through."

"Oh? Do continue. I think I've heard one part of the story through Him."

The scenery was too surreal to forget. There's a tale that floats around about what happens after you're brought back to life. Some recount seeing some form of afterlife while others think of an infinite crystalline labyrinth. I've always suspected it to be a mental delusion. With fleeting oxygen, blood, and energy; your brain panics. A miasma of memories floods your senses before it entombs you in a belief of where you should end up. A second drags on forever, your brain preserves itself up until it decays away.

While it's a comforting belief, it's not true.

I distinctly remember the jarring switch between warm sunlight to an unfathomable twilight. A deluge of frigid colors dot the sky surrounding a plethora of juxtaposed sceneries. It was hard to pinpoint where I was. Every celestial body our ancestors discovered laid themselves out in a disjunct splay of discord.

The castle was gone. A barren path of disjointed grounds wound itself around an infinite pillar. Men and symbols alike ran up its glossy design. Gilded veins wrapped itself around the structure line vines. Its pumping blood could be heard even from a hundred meters away. I couldn't fathom where either side went.

There was nothing to think about on the journey upward. Translucent fog obscured the ends of the pole no matter which way I looked. Occasionally, a primordial beast bowed itself into the limits of my vision with its unfathomable structure. I couldn't check my surroundings often. Straying my eyes from the winding path gave me vertigo.

Fragments of reality strung itself along the beaten path. A cascade of stories played out from the peripherals of my vision. None of them were mine. Soon, they formed a pattern. Every tale was of betrayal. An illuminant figure hung high in the sky with their commands and desires. Every figure—shrouded in the darkness of his light—held their left hand behind their back with their fingers crossed.

A reverberant boom echoed from one of the memories. A distorted gaze of multicolored noise engulfed the view whole as a resonant tone poured out from its frame.

Strayed from the winding path was a towering mansion. Its bending spires held beacons of light which brightened the path ahead. Shaded figures dance within the windows of the palace. It was hard to tell if this was another memory or the right place to be. It felt wrong intruding on the abandoned lot. Splintered wood gradually fills the path up to the main gateway. Every ten or so steps a plank snaps underneath my weight.

The iron fence barely held itself shut. A simple tug was enough to separate the gate down the middle. The mansion's defenses were almost non-existent. For every barrier which beckoned me to leave, it held no power in staking its claim.

As I entered the mansion's interior, a garden of foliage connected the outside world to a sterile lab. Rows of vines with blossomed lilies cling themselves to the abandoned room. All the posters and warning signs were torn and covered by the invading flora.

In the center of the room was a large, obsidian obelisk. A litany of runes ran across its sleek finish. Its design invited me to look down toward its nadir. Underneath the large stalactite was a pedestal of gold. Its finish was less defined as the pillar and the obelisk. For a simple plate and its carved hand, the sculpt was without intricacy.

While I pondered its design, a voice boomed from the room's recesses, "You failed."

In the moment, I couldn't pinpoint where the source of the noise was. As I frantically scanned my head around the room, a towering figure slowly approached from the same shadows.

A man with tattered clothes ambled out with his hand firmly grasped against the railing of the room's catwalk. I could hardly peel my eyes away from his roughened skin. Underneath his frayed, blue coat is his near-charred skin. His eyes were covered by the shade of his hood, yet his scorched mouth hung in disappointment.

"Arrogance has drowned your heart and lined your soles." He spoke with a raspy, broken tone. "Your greed anchors what little buoyancy you have in this life."

And then, he stopped. Once he reached the end of the catwalk, he stood with his gaze fixed upon me. We were almost level. Only a few feet of elevation separated us. I had to look up toward him.

With a swift slam, his fingers quickly coiled around the platform's rusted railing. "Betrayal comes naturally to your kind. I find it quite disheartening. Where's your obedience? Have you no respect for your creator?"

The man was without a lip. His face was nothing more than a thinly-shielded skull. Alongside his bony hands were skeletal limbs. And yet, he looked almost identical to my closest companion.

"He saw something in you, I know it." The skeleton raised his hand to meet against the underside of his chin. "There's something about his attention to detail even I can't comprehend. Your existence was a mistake. There were corrections to be made.

"Oh, mortality. The flings of lesser life. Such a manipulable tool. In the echelons of divinity will similar actions cause whalefalls. The philosophy of destiny falls deaf upon his sensitive ears. Always a reason. Always a way."

With the aid of the railing, he slowly turned his back to me. As my mind raced to find an answer to his twisting words, he spoke his final line, "No, I think it's time. Give that selfish hag the position she deserves. I've given her unneeded strife. If that's what he desires, then so be it."

And then, he left. As soon as he left my sight, I woke up in my coffin.

Relaying this information to the Groundskeeper was tough. There were hardly enough words to describe the alien landscape. As I described the skeleton, the Groundskeeper winced in reaction.

"Ah," he remarked, "That would explain it. You met Skymarcher."

Skymarcher, the Avatar of Reality. He's the oldest deity I've known of. I've heard stories of his visage and his symbols. Despite the numerous tales spun around him, none described him as a husk—a glorified skeleton.

Soon after, the Groundskeeper waved his hand forward as he turned his body toward the distant village. His attention remained on me as he beckoned, "Come! I'm sure you have a lot to say. I have some friends I'd like to acquaint you with."

There wasn't much of an option to say no. Even as I pondered the option, I realized the weight of the Groundskeeper's words were. There was nothing left for me. I can only go so far alone. I've already learned that the hard way.

Chapter 2

The Groundskeeper led me through the bustling streets of Temple Coast. Swarms of people carrying an assortment of items organized themselves in flowing rivers of footwork. We found ourselves in the thick of the town's business. Street vendors of varied backgrounds line across the pavement with their rambunctious calls.

"You know, on second thought," The Groundskeeper spoke as he led me through the city, "Maybe I should've waited an hour or so. Ah, it's fine. Everyone's all waiting for us anyway."

I was puzzled by what he meant—everyone? The implication of the phrase stuck with me as we continued to swim through the school of shoppers.

It's almost jarring to be back in your hometown. I remember the towering walls of the downtown area. Even if they were multistory buildings, the view felt more grandiose than it should be. I know the streets by memory. I remember the sunny weekends spent simply roaming around. It's a small job I can't easily replicate.

The Groundskeeper led me to a small building with a sign reading INN BETWEEN overhead. The description itself felt apt considering the location of the inn. The layout of the city sections off buildings in a grid system. With the pattern of buildings, the Inn Between situates itself right where a road should be.

I was immediately greeted with a cacophony of chatter. Transitioning from the hollering vendors to the cheering patrons was rough to acclimate to. Similarly, the still air of the inn's interior reminded me how easily I ignored the gusty winds outside.

There wasn't much time for me to scan every individual in the room. As soon as the Groundskeeper brought me to the front of the tavern, he'd give a few hearty knocks against the polished wood counter alongside a resonant call, "Hey Bartender, I'm back from my graveyard shift!"

As I sat down by the bar, I placed my attention toward the ends of the bar. Even if I was familiar with this town, I've never thought of entering here. If anything, I don't remember this bar existing to begin with.

Soon, my eyes met with a quaint figure placed upon the myriad of assorted alcohol. As his slender fingers glossed over the inside of one of the plethora of dirty mugs left in the sink, his own attention diverted from his work and centered toward us. With a light sigh, the Bartender placed the mug and cloth down on the counter as he walked over.

His appearance was one I particularly expected from his profession. With his thick brown jacket, white undershirt, and red tie, the absence of any wrinkles or patches almost intrigued me. His frizzled, yellow hair left a natural shade underneath which reached down toward his pointed nose.

As he spoke, his voice held a mellow and relaxed quality. His speech remained monotone with his inflections thin. "Welcome back, Ozymandias. I'd be right to assume the woman to your right was a corpse you found earlier?"

"Well, she doesn't look much like a corpse!" the Groundskeeper returned, "Her grave was unmarked, though. I had to shake her name out of a mental acuity test."

"As always." The Bartender remarked with a sigh.

I remained silent during their conversation. After they both concluded, the Bartender leaned down against the counter of the table as he squinted directly at me.

"Mandy." His voice was sharp. "This looks just like my mother. Are you playing some kind of joke on me?"

The Groundskeeper—Ozymandias—leaned over to squint towards me as well. After a second, he'd return back to his previous position with a smile on his face. "I've seen your mother before, she doesn't remotely look like her. Especially not in this light."

Before I could even register what happened, I heard a loud whack followed by a faint yelp. The Bartender had his hand outstretched and in place while Ozymandias cowered down toward the counter.

Afterward, the sole employee let out another sigh as he leaned on the table once more. "Point still stands."

Ozymandias grits his teeth and forcefully exhales. "Point taken."

"Moving on. Didn't you say your friends would be over here soon?"

"Well, yeah. I think that changed though. Hold on." Ozymandias fished his hand within the coat of his pocket. Once he grabbed hold of his pen and Tabula, he'd quickly flip through a set of pages before landing on an arbitrary point.

The Groundskeeper stopped for a moment. As his eyes scanned across the Tabula's yellowed paper, he'd rapidly click against the activating mechanism of his pen.

"Ballpoint pens," The Bartender remarked, "Sonata's most prized invention."

"Pre-Sonatan." Ozymandias quipped.

"Like there's much of a difference nowadays."

"Of course there's a difference! The Sonatans were Post-Catastrophe and the Pre-Sonatans were Pre-Catastrophe!"

"Look me dead in the eyes and tell me when this'll ever be applicable."

Ozymandias quickly lifted his eyes out of his book and snapped his attention toward the Bartender.

"What, do you think anything matters past the Age of Heroes?"

"I'd like to think there's a few stragglers of prior generations that'd sure love to know their history hasn't eroded in the sands of time."

"You do you, Mandy. There's no mortal Sonatan left to cater to."

As much as the Bartender is right, Ozymandias' sentiment sticks with me a little more. 

I've yet to brush up on my Legend History as of late, but I know the Sonatans were direct ancestors of us. It's more of a distinction than an evolutionary trait. If I recall correctly, the term was coined by Sol Invictus a few years after the Kingdom of Sol was situated off the coast of Caelitra.

In his terms, a Sonatan is a human which lived at all between the Catastrophe and the Restructuring. Or, in years, zero to a thousand years after the Catastrophe.

"Ah, you know what? We've got time." The Groundskeeper stashes away his pen and Tabula. "So, Autumn, do you have any interesting stories about your past? Did you have a good childhood? Great friends?"

I raised my torso up and shifted around in the seat. Once I was comfortable, I relaxed my body and released my shoulders. "Depends, how much time do we have until your friend gets here?"

"Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour. I'm sure you've got something to say given your origin!"

It's strange to think I was born more than twenty years ago. Two decades have passed, and I can only remember a tenth of that time. I was born in Temple Coast to a loving family. My mother was an active member of the city's committee while my dad was a freelance blacksmith. It baffles me when I think about their clashing careers sometimes.

I only knew them as individual people in my later years. All I wanted to learn from them was their care and support. Frankly, I can't really blame myself, but I do feel a shred of guilt whenever I think about it. They met during the annual Dark Moon festival. When I heard how they bonded, it felt almost cliche. While they had different ambitions, their interests aligned quite well.

Sometimes, they'd fight. There wasn't anything too rash, but I remember it always scared me. Growing up, I just knew that was kind of natural. More often than not I heard their screaming as opposed to their apologies.

Besides my parents, I had a friend throughout my childhood who I often played with. His name was Caesar. We met in the town square while our parents were shopping for groceries. I laughed at how bright his blue jacket was, and that was enough to intrigue both of our parents. I'm not sure how long they talked for, but we had the option to either sit around or talk ourselves.

Caesar was an offshoot of royalty. While his family weren't direct lineages, they lived a quaint life by the coast to live for themselves. While they were isolated, they were quite religious. Caesar's father held sermons and performed miracles in the name of Skymarcher. His mother led the choirs in hymns and tunes after studying at the Invictus Institute.

Neither of them lived on a salary, last I recall. They refused donations and monetary support from the community. However, they did accept a hefty sum from a distant patron. Caesar never told me what his parents did with the money, but their wardrobe and commodities rarely—if they ever—changed.

I used to wonder from which royalty they came from. As much as they preached the name of Skymarcher, I always saw a few icons of Invictus strewn around the house. In scriptures, it's often depicted the two deities were known to be close. However, I rarely saw Caesar or his parents talk much of Invictus.

Life rarely differed during my childhood. Every week started with our shopping errands. Around the same time every day after was spent learning. History and theology were taught in tandem. Mathematics and science were paired as well. Often, we received a very general overview of what was needed in day to day life—how to properly budget your finances, the history of Temple Coast, and gardening to name a few.

Magic and combat—as we liked to call it—weren't taught for safety reasons. A number of parents wished to educate us on the topics to further prepare us, but a group of similar proportions felt the opposite. To remedy this, it was taught as a separate school altogether. Caesar and I never took these classes, but I remember the fun stories our peers told us about.

I used to have a younger brother, as well. He was very interested in chemistry and anything related to alchemy. His room was filled from top to bottom with various charts and landmark figures of their fields. It was almost overwhelming to see a book's worth of words sprawled across a little kid's wall.

Specific topics like chemistry were reserved only for apprentice-like positions. I remember certain careers like fishers or explorers were common among Temple Coast. Magic was rarely taught. Every few years, a traveling band of professionals scouted out potential students to train. Despite Caesar's eagerness, he was never chosen.

I never showed much interest in any specific trade. Magic rarely intrigued me, and any form of combat made me squeamish. Caesar, on the other hand, was a proficient diviner. His devotion to Skymarcher outmatched that of his own father's.

I remember the day in which Caesar was gifted his powers. Before this, all he could do was tirelessly pray and sacrifice in his name. Of course, the sacrifices weren't of any harm. Whenever he had the option to help others over himself, Caesar typically favored giving something of his when it benefited others the most. This included his time, his clothes, and even sometimes his food.

He was the first person to break the news to. With a stone in his hand, Caesar effortlessly dug his fingers within the stone and displaced the material as if it were clay. With the same rock, he sculpted the very mask depicted on Skymarcher. Two large holes for eyes sat upon the middle, with a large snout extruding in the middle. Various jagged points stuck out the top like ears and fluff. It was similar to a Pre-Sonatan animal—a canine to be precise.

"This was the mask He wore when He visited," Caesar added, "Except, it was a lot more orange."

Sometimes, I questioned if I was destined for anything. Everyone around me had some sort of innate gift or undying passion that they were born with. I had no interest in combat or in any sort of magic. My body barely produced enough Ichor to facilitate any form of magic.

When I was about sixteen, he led me to his forge and brought out a small briefcase. Engraved on a small gold plating were the words PROPERTY OF PARABELLUM. As he placed his hands upon the latches, he looked me in the eyes and warned me.

"This is ancient technology," He sternly confided, "We don't know what it does, but it will help in an emergency."

Inside was a large device smoothened with steel. Two canisters of shining blue liquid stuck out from the main structure. My father told me it was a Blight-Energy Laser, or a BEL for short. He stowed it away within a small part of his forgery, and I rarely thought about it since.

Life, otherwise, remained mundane. If everything continued as it should've, I would've been on track to take on the family business. I was reluctantly showing an interest in weapon smithing, and my brother wanted to leave to study alchemy at Southern Crown University. Caesar was on his way to priesthood considering his extraordinary progress. He would've been the youngest appointed priest to date.

My mother, for the last few weeks I knew her, grew stressed. Every night she'd come home concerned and agitated. It was hard to deal with, but she insisted that we needed to move soon. My father was against the idea on concerns with his forge. Even if they were to agree, they were both split on where to move. My mother knew of Caesar's connections, so they could land a stable job and place of residence within the boundaries of the Kingdom of Sol. My father, on the other hand, wanted to move to the Heartland for its opportunities and growing need for weapon smiths. However, they both agreed anywhere east of the Heartland was too dangerous to settle in.

Unfortunately, we ran out of time. On the dawn of the Dark Moon festival, a group of army men stormed our city and pillaged it for all it was worth.

I vividly remember waking up that day. Before the sun woke me up, my mother frantically shook me awake with a bag of supplies in her hand. As soon as I was awake, she dragged me down to the forge where my father and brother were already hunkered down in.

As I laid silent behind the anvil, I kept my sights solely on my parents. Looking out toward the exit only filled me with dread. There was nothing I could do but wait.

My father held the BEL steady. He was anticipating any of the troops to barge in at any moment. While he stood at the ready, my mother beckoned for me and my brother to come closer. She explained the plan to us in a hushed voice. Because of the army's affiliations, Caesar's family—and anything of theirs—was to be left alone. If we were to survive, it was through their protection.

Once everything drew silent, my brother's eyes began to swell. He buried his face deep in my mother's arms as he tried his best to silence his cries. It was hard to watch—I didn't understand what was happening.

The troops found our house. They broke down the doors and busted the locks. I heard their footsteps scamper all around the house. The forge wasn't hard to miss. A large, stone brick chamber jutting from a wooden cabin wasn't easy to hide. Despite this, the forge was the last place they checked. They all gathered by the door and broke it open in tandem.

My father immediately opened fire. A purple streak of energy broke against the troop's head as a light crackle of energy pulsed around his body. Of course, he got lucky. My mother took up a nearby hammer and ran toward the group. Together, they were barely able to incapacitate most of the soldiers there.

As we fled our house, I caught a glimpse of their crest and titles. On their hearts was a golden circle with a line struck through the top. From what I knew, this was the Goddess Fortuna's symbol. It made sense as to why Caesar's family would be spared from this attack. Underneath their crest, however, was the title VEINFINDER. All the soldiers held a number of stars with the same designation.

As we made a break for the church, my brother accidentally tripped on a small step down the pathway and fell on his face. Before I could even look back, my mother ushered me forward while my father stayed back. That was the last time I saw either of them.

Once we were inside, we both noticed the statues and stained glass which lined the walls. A small organ sat behind the decorated pew with a row of risers to the right. It was hard to ignore how packed the church was. All the rows were filled to the brim with people. It was hard to drown out the sound of screaming toddlers and crying children.

I met up with Caesar by the front. We both went in for a hug which nearly broke both of our ribs. As he smiled at my arrival, I noticed the streaks of dried tears on his cheeks. We both sat down on the stairs near the altar while we both watched the back of the building. Something told me this wasn't the end—it would be too easy to stuff the city inside the church.

Unfortunately, I was correct. A group of Veinfinders broke the carved wooden doors with a metallic battering ram. As they casted the large hunk of metal to the side, they all brought out their own type of firearms and aimed it at the crowd. I wasn't able to tell what it was, but there weren't any cylinders of shining liquid sticking out.

The church went into a frenzy. A cacophony of wails and screams erupted as many groups attempted to escape. Two powerful booms echoed throughout the church, silencing everyone in fear.

"The Ichor was a lie," The leader yelled, "Everyone exit the church in an orderly fashion or we will use lethal force."

Outside the church doors were a row of wagons. As each person exited the church, they were either tied up or set free. At first, I couldn't tell what fashion they were separating everyone in. However, as soon as we drew closer to the Veinfinders, I heard their question without answer, "State your devotion."

Those who were let free showed a small pendant—a valuable item which bore the same Circle of Myths around Ozymandias' neck. Caesar had one as well. I was out of luck.

As we were a few moments away from being separated, Caesar leaned over and whispered in my ear, "State the phrase, 'Me, Myself, and I'."

Once the guards let the person in front go, they blocked the way as the leader pierced his irritated gaze my way.

"State your devotion," he demanded.

I could feel a lump in my throat form as I mulled over the phrase. Every second felt like hell as my body trembled in fear. Eventually, I mustered out the phrase in stutters, "Me, Myself, and I."

"Church of Skymarcher. Leave, and do not bother our men."

Even as I was sent free, all the tension in my body remained as I walked out. My mother—who I separated from as we were quickly drawn into lines—was sent off to the wagons. I stood near the rest of the spared men.

Caesar left unscathed. While I knew how scared he was, his body was relaxed. He walked over in a slow tempo as he took deep breaths to calm himself down.

The Veinfinders evacuated the church with haste. A few members raised their hands up and gave signals to the wagons ahead. As the final family boarded on the crowded carriage, I slowly turned toward Caesar with horror in my eyes.

"What'll happen to them?" I whispered.

Caesar shook his head solemnly, "Not even Skymarcher knows."

Afterward, a group of soldiers walked up to Caesar with their hands to their side. The man on the right spoke with a concentrated tone, "Paragon Sol Invictus demands your presence at once. Travel and accommodations will be paid for by the Toru estate through the aid of the Golden Fox."

I watched his calmed demeanor spark to fear. The news caught him off guard—enough to make him stammer. "Can I bring my curate along on the journey? She's required in mobile rituals."

"I'll notify Paragon Sol Invictus."

Caesar was extraordinarily charismatic. Even if he was caught off-guard, his words were adhered to without question. I wasn't sure if he found a way to augment his speech with Ichor, or if it was a skill taught to him through his training.

One wagon remained in place. It was a carriage with the symbol of a nonagon with sun rays emanating from the center placed upon the backside—Sol Invictus. The remaining Veinfinders left alongside their acquired prisoners.

Ash and soot made its way into my nose. Its putrid stench jolted me out of my fear and out to observe the rest of the village. Most of the town was in flames. Kiosks and carriages were beaten and casted aside. Spills of garbage littered the streets, allowing for flames to cross along the pavements.

As I scanned the remains of the town, Caesar firmly placed both of his hands upon my shoulders and turned me around. He tilted his head downward, looking up into my eyes as he choked back a round of tears.

"We're going to find your mother." I could hear the mucus drowning parts of his speech. "She's going to be okay. We will find your mother. We'll find your father. We'll find your younger brother Benny as well. They'll all be okay."

I forgot about my brother. While the village burned down, I thought of his preparations for Southern Crown. 

Afterward, I nodded back to Caesar. I didn't have the energy to say anything more. I knew if I opened my mouth, I'd be an emotional mess. It was hard enough to fight back the building flood of tears.

Caesar loosened his hands and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. "Come on, it'll be alright. Invictus will help us."

Most of my childhood—up until the day the Veinfinders came—was okay. I couldn't ask for anything more from my parents. From Caesar, as well. I was surprised with how caring he's been throughout my life. While reciting this all to Ozymandias and the Bartender, it dawned on me now how little I've expressed my gratitude to him.

"So you're an orphan?" A feminine voice broke me out of my mind's eye. "That blows. Did you ever find your parents? Were they eccentric with where they grew their flowers as well?"

"Miyana!" Ozymandias barked, "Give her some time to breathe! When did you get here anyway? I didn't hear you walk in."

The Bartender let out another sigh as he spun his finger in circles. "It was during the part where she entered the church. I'm surprised none of you noticed."

My attention was already fixed on the newcomer. I furrowed my eyebrows at Miyana—how did I not notice her walk in?

"Well, you know me and my first impressions," Miyana let out a scoff as she reached an idle hand over to her stowed-away blade, "I know more about this corpse than she knows about me. Ain't that right, Mandy?"

Ozymandias rolled his eyes in response.

"Right, well! Looks like I have to do all the work around here," The newcomer extended her arm out toward me with an outstretched hand, "The name's Miyana d'Izune. Born and raised in the Izune Mountaintops. Best strategist in Caelitra, best in the Council, and second best swordswoman in Caelitra. Pleasure to meet you, Sforzando."

"Sforzando?" I sheepishly replied, "How do you know my last name?"

"Mandy's got a reputation for his loose lips. He talked all about you even if the old porcelain doll we have at the base couldn't glean any information off the archives."

"Right, I should've guessed that. Who's the best swordswoman in Caelitra?"

"Ravsangal."

Miyana spoke with malice. Her voice lowered near a growl as her eyes narrowed off toward the distance.

In fear, I slowly extended my hand out and shook her hand. "Well, it's nice to meet you Miss d'Izune."

Miyana had a strange design to her. She wore various green silks and gowns as an outward layer. Inside, she wore a white undershirt similar to the Bartender's with a pair of gray slacks. She had a set of pink eyes which matched the same intensity of her shoulder-length hair. It was better to call her an art teacher than a skilled swordswoman.

Ozymandias sat himself up from his seat and clapped his hands together. "Well! We best get a move on, then. I know you wanted to get some drinks, Miyana, but I think it's best we head back early before we have to deal with the approaching storm."

"Oh, don't worry about the storm," Miyana flicked her hand and scoffed, "Hey Bartender! Can we get a few rounds of gin? I know Mandy hates the taste of 'em!"

It was hard to pin down what Miyana was like. I drew a blank at her affiliations; the only symbol I had to work with was her golden moon beads. Neither Fortuna, Skymarcher, or Sol Invictus aligned themselves with the moon. Maybe I was thinking too hard. Afterall, I've spoken a mouthful about the divine already. I might as well enjoy the drinks while they're free.

Chapter 3

The mid-afternoon sun soon found its home below the horizon. One by one, a collective of stars blink upon the clear night sky. Behind those stars was the quilted blanket of night. The homogenous sky only persisted throughout the daytime. Once the sun's radiant light fled, all we were left with were various shades of purple and black held together by a golden string.

There wasn't much scenery within the tavern, however. I would often look up and out to catch a sliver of its patchwork. It was a nice distraction from my new companions. Ten emptied glasses surrounded Ozymandias and Miyana. After the first pint, my conversations and attention gradually shifted toward the Bartender.

"Not much of a drinker, are you?" As he served another round to the group, he focused his words on me, "That's alright if you aren't. Mandy wasn't sure of your personal hobbies."

We spoke on a variety of topics. While he didn't divulge much of his life, the Bartender did mention his interests in secondary education. "I had it all planned out—six years learning as much as I can. An apprentice showed up months before I left, however. I took up the opportunity of learning about the fine arts of alcohol instead."

The duo occupied themselves in various vocal activities. One minute, they'd run their mouths on just about anything. The next, they'd bust into song singing anything folk. I cowered in my enclosed space, attempting to separate myself from them as much as I can.

The Bartender didn't seem to care. Neither did anyone around. Eventually, I figured out I was only drawing more attention to myself.

As he returned back to our side of the counter with two mugs filled to the brim with craft beer, he performed the same check-up routine. However, the Bartender reached down into his suit and opened his own Tabula. "I don't think neither Mandy or Miyana plan to leave anytime soon. They wanted you to meet everyone else, though."

"Ah, fantastic." I didn't have much else to do. I expected myself to hunker down in the same chair until sunrise.

"If this type of environment isn't for you—and I don't blame you if so—I can call up their 'designated driver', so to say."

"I'd prefer that."

A few minutes passed by. Ozymandias occupied his time by talking about his services as an altar boy. Once the driver was here, the Bartender caught my attention and diverted it toward the tavern's front window.

After I said my goodbyes to the three of them, I walked out from the tavern to the sight of a strange feat of technology. Seated at the front of the contraption was a strange scooter with a sleek design. Horizontal blue lines ran across the bottom edge of the vehicle as a visible gap persisted between the ground and the vehicle itself. A smooth marble finish covered most of the surface, with the exception of two gray handles.

Attached to the scooter is a set of three teacup-shaped pods with a similar material palette. Inside the modules was a leather seat alongside a few amenities such as a cup holder. A small dome of glass topped off the strange pod to create a small bulb.

The driver of this strange set of pods was adorned in gaudy clothes. Adorned on his head was a poofy hat with a strange feather which stuck out from the top. A similar, larger feather stuck out from the back of his brown jacket. The driver wore a white undergarment underneath. His pants were similar in color to his jacket. A set of diamond knee pads separated the two contrasting tones of brown.

What stuck out to me the most was his face. Underneath his goofy hat was a large tuff of yellow hair and a set of similar colored eyes. I couldn't help but shake the idea that I've seen someone like him before.

With an outstretched arm, his driver waved toward the cluster of pods before he spoke, "Enter one of the pods. I will collect Ozymandias and Miyana later in the night."

His voice didn't sit with me well. While it sounded almost human, there was no mistaking its rigid nature and synthesized vocals. What added to the discomfort was how smooth his skin was. I'd at least expect a few blemishes or imperfections rather than a homogenous finish.

Once I sat down in one of the pods, the overhead door sealed me inside. I barely felt any sort of acceleration. There was a simple tug and nothing more. Looking out to the other pods, they seemed to keep in a small group together relatively well. There wasn't anything that tethered them to each other—or to the scooter, for that matter.

A faint ding made itself apparent, alerting me of a small speaker placed near the cupholder of the bulb. Soon after, it projected a grainy voice into the pod. "So, you must be Autumn Sforzando. I'm surprised at the specificity of a last name."

Looking forward, I didn't see any type of device on the driver's body. With a few glances back and forth, I located a small button next to the speaker and pressed upon it.

My attention was toward the driver. "Yeah, that's kind of spooky."

"Of course, last names are more of a custom above all." His mouth remained shut. "They're a distinction of origin, if anything more."

His body barely moved an inch as he spoke. On his side, there was no button he needed to press. It was almost jarring to hear him speak to me—even when it was his own voice.

I contorted my body to return back to a comfortable seating position before talking to the speaker, "So, how are you speaking to me? Is this pre-recorded? How much of this whole introduction have you three planned?"

"Four," he corrected, "These relay machines were built with convenience in mind. My mouth is nothing more than a cosmetic speaker."

"Cosmetic speaker? Do you just think and whatever comes to mind is transmitted?"

"More or less. My thoughts can be deciphered in a cohesive language whereas yours are a series of slime and shock without rhyme or reason."

Even if the driver couldn't currently see me, I squinted at the speaker in silence.

"I'm sure neither of the two caught you up on this, but I'm a construct of machine and emotion. Everyone calls me by my abbreviated project designation, Solis."

“Project designation Solis? Does that mean anything in specific?

“It’s an acronym. I’d rather not elaborate. Any other source on its meaning is fair game.”

“Right, I won’t budge then.”

An artificial stench stained the interior. I couldn’t tell if it was attempting to replicate a bakery or a specific pastry. Attempting to find an answer to this question wore the scent away from my attention.

I remember the wagon ride out from the Temple Coast. Caesar and I were both confused as to why we needed to travel by land when the sea was an hour away.

As we saw our town fall farther below the horizon, a pit formed in my stomach. The city was built upon lumber. With how close it was to the Ampersandi Pits, we found a way to work with an abundance. Now, seeing the pillars of smoke coalesce into one, it never sat right with me.

“Why did they burn it all down?” I couldn’t peel my eyes from the vanishing inferno.

For once, I heard Caesar’s voice divorced from his usual jovial spirit. “I don’t know, Autumn. War never makes sense.”

“Why did they take everyone away? Why were we chosen by belief?”

“Collateral, I would assume. Someone promised Ichor through conquest. Something went wrong down the chain of communication, I know it.”

I pressed my fingertips against the carriage window. A cold sensation ran through my fingers as I peeled away my hand. Five translucent prints sustained themselves among the glass before fading away.

“The relations between the worshippers of Skymarcher and Fortuna are growing. It would look bad on their part if we were included in their hostages.”

“So they’ve been left to fend for themselves?”

“As far as we know, yes. I pray the flames will aid as signals of distress.”

Thirty years pass with one less person in the world, and the lights of the Temple Coast glow brilliant. I placed my cheek upon the warm glass with my eyes fixed on the fading city. Even as I pushed myself upon the bulb, I couldn’t feel any vibrations or contact with the ground. I’ve drowned out the idle whir of the scooter’s engine long ago.

By chance, my eyes caught sight of the overhanging lights. The swarm of stars and patchwork of an infinite deep sea coat the world in a blanket of darkness. I’ve always been scared of what lingers in the shadows, but there’s something comforting about the sanctity of the bulb.

Solis seemed to show no outward emotion. His figure remained still and calculated. Every turn of his wrist felt as if it were queued in a list of a million micromovements. I can’t tell how he’s able to do it—I don’t envy him. I’m not sure if it’d be an insult to question his difference in rationale.

A crackle flared the speaker alive. “What was Temple Coast like in your time?”

“Oh, fine,” I sarcastically replied, “Looks about the same since the last time I saw it. A lot less soot, though. That’s a positive thing.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. From what I recall, Temple Coast has benefitted from a diplomatic agreement between the Aurelian Mysteries and the Cultists of Skymarcher.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Thirty years ago.”

I furrowed my eyebrows toward the distant horizon.

“Temple Coast has grown to be an exporting powerhouse. With the fruits of the Pits and the fortune of the sea, they’re hoping to complete a religious campus with the surplus funds within the next generation.”

“Right, good for them.”

Even with the scenery outside, it was hard to stay awake for long. The warm-padded seat paired with the cooled curved glass beckoned me to sleep. I wasn't sure how much longer it would be until we arrived, but considering Solis had to return, it wouldn't be long.

Soon, we approached a distant storm. Its clouds laid among the plains as an enlarged shrub. The color alone gave an impression of a dust storm often seen in the Sole Dunes, but we were still within the Crown.

I slowly placed my finger upon the speaker's button, causing it to briefly buzz. "Hey, Solis. What's with the large cloud straight ahead? Is that normal?"

"Oh, perfectly normal," he answered in a reassuring cadence, "This cloud is engineered to filter any unwanted visitors. It'll allow us straight passage to our base of operation's entrance, however."

"Are you sure that's safe?"

"I must've used it prior to retrieving you, have I not?"

Once we entered the cloud, the scooter and the bulb's exteriors were engulfed without harm. Even as fine particles pushed against the glass, the glass remained clear and unscratched.

"Micromachines," Solis continued, "Imagine a trillion little hands guiding you along an open path. I find the sensation quite pleasing, and I think they enjoy the service."

We soon left the boundless billow as quick as we entered. Suddenly, the tranquil night sky hid itself away as a cylindrical concrete interior encased and led the scooter through a straightforward path.

After a brief moment of silence, the speaker broke the air with a familiar buzz. "I'd like to welcome you to the Nexus of Knowledge, the New Galilean Council's Headquarters."

The scooter drew near a thick metallic door with its jagged jaws locked within each other. A row of repeating black and yellow chevrons race above the door's teeth. As the vehicle draws near, steam quickly escapes through the door as it slowly lifts up into the ceiling.

Beyond the large entrance lies an expansive, cylindrical hub. Layers of balconies segment the room into separate exits outward. Similar to the entrance, the walls of the hub were lined with limestone. Various tubes filled with purple and blue liquids run through the walls like veins, dividing the floors further through vertical lines.

Scattered among the hub were nine distinct statues. The first statue faced the entrance with his hands outstretched. A book sat on his hand, with the carved pages etched in time. Kingly robes draped from his shoulders as a four-pronged crown hid the top of his head from view. The second statue faced away from the entrance. Clutched within the statue's hand was a blade with its tip parallel to the ground. A suit of heavy metal tightly hugged the statue's physique. Long, flowing hair partially obscured the figure's blind folded face.

On the ground floor of the hub was a figure with a curved cap and bagged pants. Another statue, situated on the other side of the room, complimented it in pose. Carved in the marble was a man adorned in an oversized robe and gown. His head was devoid of all features save for a separated sphere. Wrapped around the sphere's horizontal axis was an elliptical ring.

On the next floor was a worn-down statue. Its features were corroded and unidentifiable. A set of swords rest in the unfinished slab in which it was carved out from—one blade radiant and the other reflective.

A set of two statues sat within a nook of the marble wall. One statue depicted a figure with large wings. Its span stretched across an eighth of the hub's circumference. Upon its body were a set of scales which lined the torso down in its detail. A set of mangled horns perched atop its head, as they both pointed up toward the ceiling. The smaller statue depicted a woman adorned from neck to ankles in uniform. Vertical creases run across its black material with a set of iconography placed upon her chest. Stuck within a loop-like circle was a stray thunderbolt striking upon the icon's ground. Two sets of glass moon beads tie two symmetrical lines of hair on the sides of her head.

One statue stood in the center of a large, round table. The figure balanced herself on one foot, as the other lifted itself up as a counterweight. In her hands were two carved baskets. The fruits sat within the contains, however, were genuine. Surrounding the base of the statue were crates of bottled wine and baskets of bread.

The last statue stood behind a bulky, granite sundial. Underneath its silken attire were spiraled sleeves which cover its legs. From the neck up, the statue is devoid of any hair. All that remains are two thick eyebrows above their eyes.

The scooter navigated through the interior of the complex without issue. Its expansive hallways seemed to be built for a vehicle of its caliber. I sat with my knees pressed against the seat, examining the statue and its rooms.

Soon after we pass the final statue, Solis veers the scooter around toward the entrance of the building. As he does so, I can hear his voice from the speaker gradually crescendo from nothing. "And thus, these statues represent the late Sonatan Pantheon. I assume you caught that all, Autumn?"

Once Solis called my name out, my attention quickly snapped away from the design of the headquarters back to the speaker. As a result, I quickly blurted out, "Yes?"

"Good." I'm not sure what I agreed to. "I find the history of these deities quite fascinating. Maybe it's because of my era of origin. Something about these nine resonates with me far more than the recent bodies of worship."

"Yes, I think so. Quite frankly, I lose track after the main three."

"I don't blame you. These cohorts are often debated on their divinity in part of their Ichor content. While they possess extraordinary feats, it's commonly accepted their titles are supported through merit rather than Ichor."

"I agree, yes. I kind of figured based off of the kid in the ball cap."

"Providence? I'm sure there's an ongoing field of research on whether their skills were of talent or miracle."

I wasn't sure of what type of conversation I found myself in, but it felt as if I was saying the right answers by pure chance.

Through the winding spiral of the Nexus, we both arrived at a set of doors titled with various names. As I read the nameplates, Solis' voice followed behind without delay, "Currently this facility holds Ozymandias, Miyana, Kiryana, and Solis—me."

The scooter slows to a halt near a set of unlabeled doors. Similar to its acceleration, the bulb slowed to a stop in a near-seamless manner. It took me a while to figure out how to exit my small carriage. After pressing a small purple button, a slip of glass slid up toward the bulb's top. Stepping out from the floating vehicle out to the ground felt disorienting. Once I planted my foot on the linoleum floor, I felt both my legs disagreeing with each other. A quick hop out of the pod quickly fixed the issue.

Solis extended his arm out to his side. He slowly moved his hand to point toward the selection of empty rooms in front of him. "Pick whichever one you want. I'll have your name engraved like the rest of them. Any questions before I leave?"

"Questions? Oh, right," I quickly caught myself mid-stutter to collect my thoughts into a coherent question. "What is the New Galilean Council? Is it the group of statues scattered throughout the Nexus?"

"Oh, good question. I don't think I've explained that since we got here."

I let out a small exhale—relief.

"The original Galilean Council, known as the Starwatchers, were a set of four guardians appointed by Sinatra to take charge of his cenotaph if he were to perish. We don't know what happened to these four members, but they were named after a subset of moons in which the Sonatans suspected Sinatra arrived from."

"Ah, interesting."

"We've taken on the mantle to symbolize a rebirth and simultaneous restructure of Sinatra's values. While we aren't the exact heirs to their claim or attributes, the symbolism is what we stuck with in the end."

Most of the information Solis talked about wasn't anything I've learned in Temple Coast. I was acclimating to the technology and architecture shown to me. Idly, I tapped the edge of my heel against the floor to hear the resonance of the bedroom hall.

"I must be going," Solis concluded, "Sleep well, Autumn. We have much to discuss in the morning."

Soon after, the scooter slowly turned itself around and left toward the exit. The pods behind slowly jostled around before smoothing out to sit stationary in relation to each other.

I glossed over the bedroom's decorations as I stumbled inside. My first instinct was to locate the first object in sight that could easily depress under my weight. Every moment awake felt like an uphill battle. It felt as if small gram-heavy bags pulled my eyelids shut. All I could think of was sleep. The thirty years spent locked within the confines of my coffin caught up with me.

Then, I slept. My eyes fixed on the ceiling dotted decor before I was swept away from the waking world.

I found myself at the gates of dreamland after months of absence. The stress of adventure stripped my slumber bare of joy. Without worry, I had no concern for caution. There was no curfew. I wasn't a soldier of fate anymore.

Even as I slept, my troubled past returned as another dream. We were hours after my last daydream. Once we exited the carriage, a group of guards accompanied us through a large station filled with both man and machine.

We arrived at our destination—the Crown’s only airport. A looming tower of brick and steel stretched up to the heavens. Floating ports jut out from the main tower, hosting a selection of airships of varying sizes. Their bird-like wings kept them afloat as their sails anchored them in the air. Each vessel had a rough-cut crystal embedded in its hull. They wouldn't stay afloat without these gems. Surrounding the bottoms of each ship was a small aura which matched each crystal's hue. Through their stored energy, the gem exerted its power to utilize the air around it as a water-like substance.

As we traversed through the seas of travelers, we arrived at our terminal near the zenith of the tower. We both sat down on a set of chairs overlooking the clear skies ahead. Thirty years had seldom changed the composition of the nighttime sky. However, this detail could be nothing more than an oversight by my slumbering mind.

Caesar took off his jacket and laid it across his lap. With his elbows pressed against his knees, he planted his chin within the palm of his hands. It was strange to see him this still. His white shirt had been stained with smears of soot and dirt. There was even a small patch of his shirt which had been burned off. In addition, his well-kept hair had been reduced to a frayed mess. His natural brown hair remained, but the outstretched strands covered his shoulders in a mess of strands.

The passing of airships outside kept me occupied. Large, blinking lights sat on the sails, signaling to the darkened sky of their presence. It was a light show of mismatched shapes. It's hard to see the stars above with the ship's bright mimicries.

It took me until now to notice that Caesar's attention was placed toward the sky. Among the softened noise of bustling travelers, he spoke with a hushed tone, "Do you think the Pre-Sonatans saw the same stars as us?"

It took me a moment to find the answer. My attention fixed to the dim, golden stitches which strung together the stars' backdrop. "Part of it, yes. I think all that remains is the constellation Lepus."

"What do you think they'd say about our stars? Would they even notice a difference?"

"I think they'd try and make sense of it all."

Caesar sat in thought. His left hand slowly moved across his face to cover his mouth. I could hear his exhales break against his fingers like waves against a jagged coast.

The Pre-Sonatans figured out the meaning of the sky, even if there was nothing of value. The stars were a museum of achievement to them—a showcase of their worth. The various groupings outlived the very civilization which named them. Even Lepus, a constellation which persists in both meaning and shape, hangs overhead.

"Do you think it's worth attempting to explain everything?" Caesar continued, "Is it worth it to rationalize the irrational?"

It took me a moment to recognize what he was referencing. At first, my mind snapped toward the constellations themselves. Even then, I challenged his question, "Rationalize the irrational?"

"I don't get it, Autumn. Why were we attacked?"

"Attacked? Do you mean back at Temple Coast?"

"Yes. It all came out of nowhere. One morning, I ran the hours of the rising sun by watering the flowers in the church's garden. Nearly twenty four hours later, the same flowers were engulfed in embers. What did we do to deserve this fate?"

"I don't know, Caesar. I don't know."

The prophet slowly tilted his head back as he steadily inhaled through his nose. His fingers parted away from his lips to allow for his exhale to escape in full.

"I think my mother was stressed up until the attack. I'm not sure of why, though."

"Wasn't she part of the town's council?"

"She was, yes. I remember her talking about how she worked in the Heartland before settling down in the Crown, too."

"I wonder if that's why she wanted our families to go on a surprise vacation."

My sights glued itself to the overhead countdown. A series of blackboards ticked away as each number slowly decreased in value. Fifteen minutes.

Caesar suddenly snapped his finger as he turned around to face a distant guard with a briefcase. The color of the case seemed familiar, but overall its details were shrouded by the airport's dim lights.

"Here, Autumn, your mom handed this to me while we were inside the church."

The prophet's hands gloss over the locks. They were both melded shut by some unknown force. However, as he pinched his fingers against the material, Caesar morphed the latches back to their original shape before revealing the inside of the briefcase to me.

Sat upon the cushioned padding was my father's BEL. Each of the canisters situated inside the machine were emptied of its contents, leaving an emptied husk and a useless weapon.

I carefully lifted the BEL out from its case as I idly nodded back to Caesar. Overall, the machine was a lot heavier than I anticipated it to be. My fingers wrapped around the handguard as I lightly grasped the grip. It was immediately evident I didn't know how to handle the machine.

"I think Invictus might know what to do with it." Caesar snapped his fingers once more, signaling the same guard to retrieve the empty briefcase. "Just keep hold of it for now."

With the BEL secured in my lap, I placed my sights forward in anticipation for the airship.

I expected an explanation on how to use the machine sometime before the invasion on Temple Coast. Last I recall, my father planned to teach me a few weeks out from the invasion. At the time, I had a basic gist of how it worked just by watching my father behind the anvil.

I spent the rest of the waking night boarding the airship. The trip took nearly two days of constant travel. While I rarely meandered around the wooden interior for long, I recall the view out from our room's window.

Patches of land were separated by various types of crops and shrubbery. Even from nearly a thousand meters off the ground, the individual colors of the collective crops, grass, and trees stood out in clumps.

I've never seen the world this high in the sky. The scene entertained me for hours on end. However, most of my fun came to a stop as soon as we passed by a small strip of sand and crossed over the boundless sea. Every once in a while, I was able to spot a stray ship by the blotchy brown spots among the homogenous deep blue plane.

As I sat on the edge of my bed, I could feel myself waking up. The distant noise of conversation strayed me away from my memories and back into reality.

Chapter 4

The spare bedroom was covered head to toe with various stickers of celestial bodies. Lime green mockups of various planets and their satellites stuck to the limestone walls. Columns of marble ran across the corners of the room, removing all the right angles within the space.

On top of the nearby nightstand was a small remote. Its rectangular design held no details other than its smoothened faces. A tiny white button sat in the center of the uppermost side. Pressing the button flooded the room with bright lights upon thin strips.

Hidden within the walls was a small closet and a series of drawers. A similar switch sat bolted on the wall with various buttons connected to each space. Searching through the cabinets acquainted me with a series of folded clothes.

To the right of the closet was a large mirror mounted over a granite counter. Further east was a translucent door overpowered by a warm yellow tone. Pressing the button next to the mirror slid the glass into the wall, presenting the guest bathroom.

A muffled voice seeped through the bedroom’s entrance—a fragment of a greater conversation. “Yes, Solis, I have to go out to the market to grab a few items. If you don’t want to go, I’m fully capable of taking the scooter.”

“I didn’t know we were in a supply deficit. What happened to the grocery document?” The marionette’s familiar cadence replied after, “I haven’t seen an edit to that document in a few days.”

“Mandy and Miyana said they were going out to town, so I told them to pick them up.”

After I threw on a set of clean pajamas, I slid the door wide enough to pop my head out to listen in.

“It’ll take an hour, tops. I’ll be in and out before Mandy’s guest wakes up.”

Propped up against the hallway was a pink-haired woman with a large mask shading her eyes. Four horizontal slits ran down her visor. From the neck down, she wore a uniform similar in design to Miyana’s. What differed in detail was a set of yellow highlights sewn into her garment’s chestplate.

Behind her back was a sheathed blade. Gloveless hands covered the palms of her hand. A set of white sleeves extended out up to her elbows. On the skin of her right arm was an inked design depicting a lightning bolt surrounded by a circle. For a second, I thought she was the same person I met at the Inn Between.

She was the first to notice me. Solis’ back was turned to face toward the swordswoman. Her visor obscured where she was focused on, hiding this fact until she pointed at me.

“Nevermind,” The swordswoman sighs, “She’s awake.”

The marionette turned his attention over toward me with a slow turn. At first, he raised one of his wooden eyebrows up before relaxing his confused glare.

Once the tips of his curled feet pointed straight toward me, Solis quickly pocketed his hands within his coat. “Oh, good morning, Autumn. How did you sleep last night?”

“Fine,” I flatly replied, “I’d take anything over a wooden coffin at this point.”

“Very well.”

I pushed the door open with one hand. Once it was fully retracted, I pressed my hand and shifted my weight against the wall.

“I’m assuming she’s the only member of the council who I haven’t met yet.” I pointed back to her in return. “Kiryana?”

“You are correct. That is Kiryana d’Izune, daughter of Miyana.”

The swordswoman crossed her arms. She briefly lifted her head up before turning her attention alongside her body. Kiryana let out a slight groan and walked out toward the hall's exit.

"Come on, slowpokes," she sarcastically commanded, "If I'm not leaving until I'm 'well acquainted' with the guest, then I've got a morning routine to multitask."

Soon after, Solis and I followed after. After a few seconds of us walking, the floor beneath us shifted its material to carry us forward. The tiling in the design broke away to reveal a hidden series of moving tiles. It was almost like a conveyor belt.

The marionette lifted one of his hands out of his pocket to gesture toward me as he continued in conversation, "Don't mind her attitude. She's not too fond of meeting new people. I'd assume a slight residue of angst, but she doesn't like that diagnosis."

Kiryana shot a brief glaze back at Solis.

I couldn't tell if I left a bad impression or not. She seemed to be more focused on her Tabula. Despite these gestures, I attempted to talk to her, "So, you're also a swordswoman? Is that some sort of family trade thing?"

"Sure, if you want to call it that," Kiryana replied with her sights glued to her pages, "Are you supposed to help us out on the Vantablack Plan?"

"Vantablack Plan?"

"If you don't know what it is, then it's not much of your concern."

Solis suddenly changed the pattern of his steps. The marionette lightly jogged through the hall to catch up to Kiryana. His words briefly stuttered before he spoke, "Well, I've heard from Mandy that she's a valuable asset to the team."

"We have a supercomputer, two fighters, an ex-priest, and a generational extraterrestrial engineer in our team." Her lack of inflection was obvious—contempt. "If we add another person and they're plain as bread, it's going to bring our team down. Strongest chain is the weakest link."

It dawned on me now that Solis' stutter might have been for emphasis.

Kiryana turned herself around as her velocity maintained itself. "So, then, what's your strength? Are you smarter than an all-knowing robot?"

"What?" I furrowed my eyebrows and scrunched my nose. "No, of course not."

"Well, how good are your feints? Trained with the trusty blade a bunch?"

"I don't even know how to use a kitchen knife."

"Excellent gunner? Are you some kind of skilled sharpshooter?"

I silenced myself.

"Oh good grief, Solis. We picked up the village idiot!"

The marionette raised his index finger. "Now, now, Kiryana. Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses. I'm sure Autumn is an excellent asset to any functional team."

"And also," I sheepishly added, "I don't have an ounce of Ichor in my body"

The swordswoman slapped her visor with the palm of her hand. "Oh, she's hopeless!"

All the members of the council congregated inside the dining hall. A flurry of machines skitter across the floor with supplies carried atop their chassis. I couldn't get a good look at the robots due to their speed and size, however the rapid pace of both the diners and the servants only fixed me toward the slowest objects in the room.

The table's statue—depicting a figure and their baskets of fruits—stood its ground among the sea of chaos with various grapes and berries strung within their fingers. I watched as Kiryana quickly reached her hand up to pluck a few from the statue's vine.

As I reached my hand up to grab a fruit for myself, I felt a blanket of mist encase my hand as I drew closer toward the head. Only with the frigid sensation did I notice the transparent layer of mist coating the fruits on display. It took me a moment to process this realization—I instinctively froze in fear as my mind scrambled for answers. Once I lowered myself back into my seat, I noticed Kiryana's judgmental gaze.

"Clueless," I heard her whisper to herself, "Another dysfunctional variable."

Her comments didn't help. An overwhelming urge to cower washed over my chain of actions as I peered down toward my plate. It felt as if I was fighting an invisible blanket of force—one which ushered me to leave. My curiosity hooked me, however. As I idly searched across the tabletop, my eyes fixed toward a glowing tablet next to my plate. A pen-like stick sat near the edge of the tablet. My first instinct was to test the pointed edge of the stick against the tablet. With my hapless strokes, a series of scribbles appeared upon the screen.

Underneath my markings was a selection of random letters which associated itself with each line. As the word finished, a bright red glow outlined the result. Quickly, the word washed away alongside the scribble. Only now would I notice the topmost label on the screen, BREAKFAST.

Next, I wrote out a string of words, "scrambled eggs and hashbrowns". A similar process occurred where the screen placed a uniform letter underneath each identified character. Once it fully spelled the phrase, it would quickly flick up to the top of the screen on a bulleted list. To the right of the phrase was an empty bar with the phrase IN PROGRESS etched in the center.

A set of idle machines flinched in place before they scurried off to exit the dining hall. This time, I was able to get a glimpse of the servant. It was a small machine made of reflective chrome. Two dimly lit dots sat at the front of the figure as a set of eyes. Eight spindly legs suspended the chassis in the air. On top of the machine was a small spot which differed in material to the machine's exterior.

My experimenting adventure came to a halt as I heard my name from across the table. "As, there you are, Autumn! I thought you'd sleep the whole day away."

It was Ozymandias. My head quickly snapped toward the source of the sound in front of me. I couldn't recognize him by his voice alone. Once I saw his face, it all made sense to say he was talking to me.

The groundskeeper was out of his usual attire. While his gray jacket remained, everything else had changed. A series of leather straps and pockets surrounded his torso. Underneath his various layers was a simple cotton shirt. Underneath the dining hall's light, I was able to discern a set of golden eyes looking down toward me. Even more, I was able to discern his fuzzy beard. While his face from the mouth down was covered in hair, the collection of strands extended no farther than a few inches.

It felt rude to leave him hanging. After a moment of silence, I let out a soft yawn and replied, "Yeah, it felt like I caught up on thirty years worth of rest back there."

"Ah!" A smile quickly formed upon Ozymandias' face. "Well, I'm glad to hear! A good night's rest fixes all woes."

"I guess you're right."

As I passively continued the conversation along, I noticed a set of bags underneath his eyes. They weren't pronounced, but the difference in color was enough for me to notice.

"Well, I can't really say I got much sleep. That's what I get for spending the night drinking out in the city." Ozymandias reached his hand behind his head to rub against the back of his neck.

Around this time, Miyana slowly approached the table with her hands stuffed within her pajamas. Once she passed by Kiryana, she lightly pecked her on the cheek with a kiss before starting her greetings, "Good morning, love!"

Kiryana was quickly caught off guard. She threw her hands in the air while shifting away from Miyana in her seat. "Hey! Knock it off, I'm trying to eat here!"

"What's the matter, are you too old for kisses now?"

"Not in front of the guest!"

Miyana let out a small laugh as she walked past Ozymandias with only a verbal welcome, "Morning, Mandy."

"Good morning, Miyana!" He returned with a jovial tone, "How are you feeling after last night? I swear I saw seven pints of ale around you before we left."

"Was it seven? Didn't feel like seven, though."

"Oh, those might've been mine then."

The ex-priest took a sip out of a bottled glass of water. Its shape curved at the bottom to form a smooth cone. However, the point of the shape had been replaced with the neck of the bottle.

"Well, Autumn," Ozymandias continued, "I'm not sure how you feel about getting back in the rites of adventure, but I've got a few errands I need to run for the day."

Errands? It took me a moment to process his words, but his implications left me more confused than satisfied. "What do you mean errands? Isn't that just your job at the graveyard?"

"Oh, not really. I don't work there, I've just been waiting for your arrival for the last two or so years."

I squinted my eyes. Two years?

"That's beyond the point. Miyana and I were planning to make a run through Calcine to scavenge any new tech we find."

Kiryana abruptly stopped eating and quickly looked up toward Ozymandias. "Hey didn't you say we were—"

"Since Kiryana said she had to run to Temple Coast to buy a few beauty items," he continued, uninterrupted, "I thought it'd be a good time as ever to get you back into the swing of things."

Even with her mask, I could tell she was seething with rage.

The ex-priest picked up his tablet's pen and quickly scribbled down his order. "So, Autumn, what do you say? Up for a little hiking through the Caelitran Underbelly?"

Frankly, it was hard to say no. Even with Kiryana's attitude, the idea of returning back to Calcine was enough to procure a silent nod.

Ozymandias picked up on the small gesture and clasped his hands in reaction. "Well! Let me finish my food, and we'll get you all set up and ready."

Kiryana suddenly pushed her seat back and threw her hands in the air once more. Without another word, she stormed out of the dining hall with her hands balled up in fists.

"Teenagers," Miyana remarked, "I was like her way back when. Maybe I should go and talk to her soon."

Ozymandias gave a slight scoff. "Ah, give her some time alone. I think all the training's been getting to her as of late."

The machines scuttled past Kiryana with a mixed plate of food. As it drew near, I quickly identified the contents as my ordered meal. Once it approached the table, it carefully decelerated near the edge. A second machine perched on the table extended two of its legs down to firmly grasp upon the edges of the plate. Once the machine secured the plate on its back, it would quickly scurry over to my seat to place it to the left of my empty plate.

The ex-priest tapped his fingertips against the table for a moment before snapping his fingers. "Right! Say, Autumn. Where did you leave off on your story? Something about a wagon and meeting Sol Invictus, right?"

"Think so, yeah," I spoke while I subconsciously skipped through my memories for an appropriate starting point, "Where was I? Oh, right."

I remember how different the Kingdom of the Sol was to Caelitra. While they were heavily tied and included within the mainland’s culture, the environment felt almost alien. The ground from sea to sea was covered in a thick layer of rock. There were a variety of craters strayed from the cultivated paths. An apt analogy to make to the kingdom’s environment was as if it were plucked from the moon and placed in the seas.

The sun hung in the sky even through the night hours. It seemed to follow a small path around the highest point in the sky. The people didn’t seem to mind, though. The kingdom held the largest number of all-day shops within Caelitra. There wasn’t a lull of activity that naturally came with night. Their streets were busy with vehicles and pedestrians. An amalgamation of tourists and locals mingled among the crowd as a united yet divided crowd. What separated the tourists were their brightly-colored attire and emphasis on portable storage solutions. If I had to count how many backpacks were in the crowd, I’d fall asleep before I finished an eighth of the population.

The farther you ventured inside the island, the greater the urbanization became. The coastlines were sparsely populated save for groupings of homes made specifically for visitors. Rather than fields of corn and grain, quarries of gargantuan proportions littered the offroads of the island’s highways.

The urban gradient wasn’t apparent with the path we took. Because of our transportation of choice, we landed directly in the center of the kingdom. Most of the information I’ve gained about this island came from an informational pamphlet I received upon landing. While the main export of this country was its abundant metals and minerals, tourism remained a prominent force within its borders.

Despite Caesar’s ties with the island, his first impression seemed almost in line with a typical tourist. He shielded his eyes with his hand and spoke in a surprised tone, “I know everything around this place is named after the sun, but I wasn’t expecting everything to be this bright!”

My initial reaction was similar in vein. Once we stepped out from the airport, the piercing rays of the sun squeezed the reaction right out of me. 

The guards ushered us through the bustling streets. Icons of Invictus and various amenities of the kingdom juxtaposed themselves in a harsh blend. Underneath every rayed sun was an advertisement for some overpriced experience.

It was hard to acclimate to the kingdom’s contrasting appearance from the mainland. The difference between inside and outside was more pronounced. Here, even as we left the airport, it felt as if we were both outside and inside at the same time. Various pillars and walls stretched up and over, encasing us all in a rounded dome with its outstretched arms.

Thinking over it now, the design of the nexus mimicked that of the kingdom’s. I wonder if that was intentional.

Soon, we found ourselves on an underground tramway. Caesar and I hung onto a strange railing bolted to the cart’s ceiling. Accompanying us were a selection of guards forming a loose barricade around us. Their stoic faces and still bodies nearly frightened me. The promised vacation the kingdom places upon you clashed with the important implications of our guards’ presence.

Even the underbelly of the kingdom was tightly packed with suburbs and shops. Every once in a while, the glass walls of the tram gave us a peek into these bubbles of residency. Streetlights illuminated the artificially constructed ceilings. Sets of pillars supported the caverns with their simplistic designs.

My sights wandered off from the tram’s scenery to the contents of the cart itself. The carriage was filled almost to capacity—every seat occupied and every person packed in like sardines. Caesar and I were the only two people with some semblance of space. Thankfully it was because of our entourage of guards.

After a moment, I softly tapped Caesar on the shoulder as I focused on a small family just ahead of us. “Hey, Caesar, haven’t you been to the kingdom when I was about twelve?”

“Hm, twelve?” He glanced up from the brightly patterned floor to meet my gaze. “I think so, but I don’t remember much of that trip. Why so?”

“Has this place always been this packed?”

“Well, it’s a metropolis. I wouldn’t expect this place to be sparse even during its peak hours.”

“Yeah, I get that. But look at the crowd. Don’t they all look like tourists?”

“What do you mean?”

I gestured to the family in the distance. The two parents—a pair of mothers—sat next to each other with an enlarged map covering their torsos. While two sets of heads poked out above the map, three pairs of legs sat underneath the chair.

“Right, I don’t see what you mean, though.”

“It just feels off, you know? There’s a difference between planned capacity and packed capacity.”

Once the tram stopped, the guards ushered us off and into the station. From there, we made our way out from the underground and into the controlled outside world. Ceilings of glass and walls of buildings enclosed us as we traveled along the roads. Even as the sun shined down on us, it felt as if we were still trapped.

We weren’t able to get a clear view of the castle. Our private carriage pulled up to a large metal gate. With the guards’ identifications presented to the gatekeeper, he allowed us to pass through the castle’s perimeter.

Lush, green gardens lined the sides with ornate fountains and statues. Flattened plains of grandiose fields stretched out through the castle’s archways. We wound through the area in a series of ascending roads and bridges. Marble and gold lined our sights. It took us a few minutes to reach the main entrance. Another wooden gate barred us from inside.

Before we entered, I looked out to the outer city. We were outside any glass dome or controlled exterior. As the sun beamed down on us in full, we caught a glimpse of the multiple layers of the kingdom. Various bridges among buildings wrapped and stretched between each other. Platformed plazas—more prominent on the higher layers—shielded the ground floor with a glass plane in the center. It was mind boggling to conceive the scale of the kingdom.

The castle’s interior didn’t ease our minds. Red velvet carpets strung through the foyer over a dark wood flooring. A balcony with marble railings overlooked us alongside a set of both doors and hallways. It was another labyrinth within itself.

Our footsteps echoed throughout the quiet chambers. Every once in a while, I’d make eye contact with a chiseled bust depicting Invictus’ figure. Without much color, it was hard to discern much detail. Nonetheless, we continued forth into the throne room.

A set of gold-accented doors separated us from the throne room’s interior. As they swung open, the brilliance of the cylindrical chamber seeped through the expanding entry. Sunlight shone through the various stained glass sets. While the panes were warped and unrecognizable, their colored light depicted a clear image of various images unknown to me.

Invictus sat on a throne of solid gold. The same velvet carpet cushioned the seat with golden accents alongside the exterior and interior. His armored figure covered most of the detail, yet his weight sunk in the velvet seat. His suit was made of an unknown metal painted chrome. Golden accents ran across the design, mainly positioned upon joints and intersections. His chestplate was adorned with his main icon—a nonagon with extruding sunrays. The armor’s gauntlets tensed and stretched in a wave-like motion. I couldn’t see his face past the spherical helmet. A solid dome of glass surrounded his head, completing the armor.

His voice projected through a set of speakers lined within the collar of his suit. It reverberated against the walls, and spoke with a synthesized inflection, “State your name and reason. Make it quick.”

One of the guards stepped forward and bowed. “Paragon Sol Invictus. This is Caesar Toru, priest of Temple Coast and his ritual assistant.”

Smoke poured from the suit’s pores. The armor expanded out as its plates folded out from the center. Among the mist, a hand reached out toward a nearby handle built inside the suit. While the smoke cleared, a figure stood before the deconstructed armor.

His golden hair had been compacted from the interior’s mist. Their eyes were in a squint before I could identify their color matched that of their hair. Hung from their ears were a set of tuffs held on a long string—similar to curtain ends. His arms were covered by a white undershirt, but his body was exposed. While his build wasn’t extraordinary, his chest and stomach were relatively defined in shape. From the waist down, a set of baggy dark brown pants obscured the shape of his legs. His feet were adorned with a set of wooden sandals. It was hard to pin his attire to anything of royalty, but it was nonetheless eccentric.

His voice was higher in pitch than that within the armor. Overall, his previous stoic stance clashed with his jovial cadence and outwardly vibrant expressions. This brilliance carried through as he spoke, “Caesar, hey! Glad you can make it!”

“Great uncle Laque!” He called back, “How’s it going?”

Both of them swiftly walked across the velvet carpet to meet in the middle. Laque’s arms extended to embrace Caesar in a tight hug.

The guards surrounding us slowly dismantled in form and exited out of the throne room. The suit of armor—which I assumed to be dormant—reassembled itself whole without command. My sights immediately fixed to the suit in horror.

“I’ll leave you two be,” the armor’s voice projected unaided, “I expected to rest for a while, but I may as well prepare for the festival.”

Laque returned his hug and idly waved his hand off toward his suit of armor. “Yeah, sure thing, Spaceripper. I’ll meet up with you in a few minutes.”

Upon second inspection, a set of similar curtain-ends hung from his pants. Caesar’s eyes matched that of Laque’s, alongside their complexions. What differed was their hair. Caesar’s hair was more jagged and straight in comparison to Laque’s—which was smooth and curled.

It clicked now how Caesar gained his wealth. The connections with Invictus despite his faith made sense, too. I should’ve expected this in the beginning, but seeing the two side by side—especially Invictus’ natural form—only solidified my hunch.

“How’s my favorite nephew doing?” Laque continued, “I assume great things at the very least! I never knew I’d hear your feats all the way out here.”

“Well, I mean they’re notable,” Caesar returned with little confidence, “Aren’t I your only nephew?”

“Yes, but that’s beyond the point.”

“Everything’s fine back at Temple Coast, for the most part. The last day hasn’t been too kind on either of us—and the populace as a whole.”

“Oh, right. You had a visit from the Veinfinders?”

“Veinfinders, yes.”

“Are times desperate on the mainland?" I haven’t seen their deployment outside the Heartland since the Ampersand Wars.”

“Well, that’s the thing. We don’t know. One day they kind of just showed up, and we weren’t given a rhyme or a reason.”

As I listened to the two converse, I couldn’t help but notice Laque’s speech. Similar to Solis’ and Spaceripper’s voice, it was also synthesized—albeit a lot less noticeable. Underneath his voice was a softened foreign language. Unlike his louder voice, I couldn’t tell if it was also artificially created. As far as I knew, this was his unaltered speech.

Laque stepped back and placed his hands in his pockets. His gaze wandered away from Caesar as his tone lowered. “Ah, well, I wish I could’ve helped. I could’ve probably talked Fortuna out of it if I could.”

Caesar reached his hand out to place upon Laque’s shoulder. “I know you’re busy with business here. At least all that’s been lost is a good chunk of infrastructure and not lives.”

“I suppose you’re right. Still, I’d be fighting tooth and nail if they were my citizens.”

Caesar let out a small hum in reply.

The air hung for a moment. I never noticed how silent and disconnected from the world the throne room was. The lights on the floor had shifted a small but noticeable amount.

Laque looked past Caesar to meet my gaze. His somber expression soured until it averaged out to a deadpan stare.

“Oh, hello, Azathoth,” he plainly greeted.

Caesar turned to face me with a confused glare. His hand briefly raised before he spoke, “Azathoth? Her name’s Autumn. Have you two met before?”

“Not in her own lifetime, no.”

Suddenly, I did not want to be in the room. The air had changed drastically with Laque’s presence. Every moment inside the chamber onward felt painful—agonizing.

Caesar acclimated to the change in tone rather quickly. He immediately took to neutralizing the air with a soft yet brief laugh. “Hey, I mean—she’s with me. She’s not really special in anything. No Ichor, no nothing.”

“I can see the Ambrosia in her. I think I know importance when I see it. Close your left eye.”

Reluctantly, I followed through with his instruction. As I viewed Laque with my right eye, his golden hair gained a brilliant violet glow. His eyes, in tandem, received the same effect. Opening my left eye caused this detail to vanish.

“Tetrachromacy,” Laque continued, "You saw a change in my hair, didn’t you?”

I was too stunned to respond. I rapidly opened and closed my left eye as I took in the detail.

Caesar turned to look back at Laque. His voice retained its shaken confidence as he interjected, “Uncle Laque, what are you talking about? I don’t see a change with your hair.”

The Paragon let out an exasperated sigh before swirling his left hand in a circle. “Ambrosia is the name of the fourth primary color. Normally, everyone can’t see this color. There’s not much of a biological reason to. Humans never evolved this trait naturally. No one in recorded history has experienced this fourth color naturally. The only person who’s come close to experiencing it was the company Parabellum and their aptly titled ‘Tetrachromatic Experiment 52’.

“Four deities—across the last two thousand years—have been able to see this color; Fortuna, Domi, and me. The implication that you’re able to see this color tells me more about you than your violet eyes.”

Laque slowly walks past Caesar and approaches me with his hands behind his back. As he stands a foot away from me, he tilts his head upward to make eye contact with me. Only now am I able to identify his pentagonal-shaped irises.

“You don’t remember me,” Laque questions, “do you?”

I shake my head. “Not at all, no.”

“Is there any other name you’d give yourself other than Autumn?”

“I don’t know. Bethany?”

“What’s Domi’s true name?”

I notice Laque’s synthesized voice isn’t present when he says Domi.

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Not a clue.”

“Do you remember what’s in that log cabin?”

“Log cabin, what cabin?”

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

I remained silent.

Laque slowly turned and walked away from me. His artificial voice gave way, obscuring his words in a language I couldn’t translate. Afterward, he let out another sigh—this time longer than the last. “You’re not him. What a coward.”

Caesar looked back and forth. During the conversation, he was confused by the onslaught of knowledge. An unbearable silence choked the chamber.

“Well.” Caesar attempted to break the air. “You called for me earlier, right? Is there something important you need me to do?”

“Ah, right,” Laque mumbled, “I forgot about that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’ve been informed of a special kind of lily that allows you to transcend death, to put it simply.”

Laque raises his hand and motions it within the air. A detailed outline of the lily’s shape appears within the air through a set of yellow particles.

“It looks approximately like this. If I’m correct, the last person who consumed it died within a cultist stronghold. This wouldn’t be too harsh if it wasn’t for the specific detail that these cultists worship Skymarcher.”

“Ah, you know, that would explain it. Why can’t Skymarcher retrieve it for you?”

“Moral clashing. He doesn’t like stealing from His people.”

“And why can’t you get it?”

“I thought that was obvious for you. With your set of training with His divinity, I believe it’d be easier to send you out than an army—or myself. You know how busy I am.”

“I see.”

“Luckily for you, if you decide to bring Azathoth—”

“Autumn.”

“Right. If you bring Autumn along, her skillset can definitely aid you, even if you don’t know what that skillset is.”

I blinked.

“So, are you able to retrieve the lily?”

“Ah, sure! I mean, I can’t really say no to you. Plus, it’ll be a good bit of fun. I haven’t been on an adventure of my own.”

“Fantastic!”

“However, I’d like something of value in return for my efforts.”

Laque stood still; intrigued.

“If I deliver the lily to you, then I would like assistance in freeing the citizens of Temple Coast from the Veinfinder’s custody.”

“I can try and pull a few strings. No guarantees on anything.”

“That’s more than enough for me!”

Caesar extracted himself from the conversation to look back at me. Without words, he would give a simple thumbs up and a bright smile.

“While we’re at it,” Laque continued, “I should properly train Azathoth—”

“Autumn.” Caesar chirped.

“Sorry. I should supply her with the equipment and time needed to acquaint herself with her abilities. It should only take a few days, at most.”

“You know what? I wouldn’t mind that. There’s not much for me to do in the meantime, though. What would I be doing while you’re working with Autumn?”

“If you’re up for it, the nearby Skymarcher chapters have been pretty lacking in faith recently. I’m sure you’d get your work in by rejuvenating their spirits.”

Caesar gave a simple nod.

“Good. Let’s get started then. About that BEL in your hand, Autumn, do you know how to use it properly?”

I was completely blindsided by the mention of the BEL. While I’ve kept hold of it for most of the trip, I’ve zoned out its existence up until now.

“Not really,” I sheepishly replied, “no.”

“Great!” Laque clapped his hands together. “I can quickly fix that if you don’t mind a few modifications.”

“I haven’t gotten much of a use for it, so I mean sure, why not?”

As I concluded my story, my first instinct was to assess the reaction of every member in the room. Returning from memory lane, my sights were first placed on Ozymandias. He seemed to be unchanged by the information. His radiant smile remained. 

Solis—who had been here since the beginning—paid little attention to the story. He focused on his small platter of pellets. Each packet puffed out like a balloon with a substantial amount of blue gel stored within the transparent membranes. The gel was similar in color and makeup to the ammunition found in the BELs. As he placed a pellet inside his mouth, his metal jaw broke the packet open as a series of small sparks coursed through the innards of his mouth. I can only assume this is how he recharged.

Miyana, however, had a different expression. While she wasn't intrigued, her mind and thoughts wandered off to their own before she would collect them in a single question, "Sol Invictus? The Paragon Sol Invictus?"

Initially, I was stunned. It took me a moment to answer despite the simplicity of the answer. "Well, yes. I'd assume my absence wouldn't change who he is fundamentally."

Solis chimed in with his head turned away from the group, "Yeah, that sounds about right."

Everyone's reactions perplexed me. As far as I knew of the Paragon, he was well-revered across Caelitra. Among the litany of deities, he was one of the more recognizable names. Rarely anyone saw him outside his suit of armor, Spaceripper. Proclaiming you'd meet face to face with someone as celebrated as Sol Invictus would typically be met with disbelief.

"You all don't seem too thrilled," I assessed, "Is he not that important due to my absence?"

Ozymandias shook his head. "No, not really. We've all had our own experiences with him in one way or another."

Miyana tidied up her side of the table as she engaged with the conversation. "Sol Invictus isn't much of a deity. He's more of a celebrity, if that makes sense."

"To his credit," Solis chimed in, "His achievements aren't anything to downplay. It's more that his presence is seen as a persona than a mystic figure."

Ozymandias quickly shot up in his seat and snapped his fingers together. "Demystified! That's the word I was looking for. He's pretty much demystified. There's nothing special about him when you're surrounded by his influence."

"Desensitized," the swordswoman added, "We'd be seeing the same effect if Skymarcher was just some random kid named Nathan that roamed the street instead of some..."

Miyana's voice trailed off. Her hand remained in the air with her index finger pointed toward the sky. As her voice petered off, her finger slowly lowered itself in tandem. "Ah, forget it. You get what I mean."

"Yeah, I get you." Ozymandias' tone didn't sound too convinced. "I mean, look around us. We're in a large underground living space with the architecture and mythology based off of the myth of Laque and the Sonatan Gods. Miyana's lineage is closely tied to his experiments, I'm related by blood to him, and Solis..."

The mannequin looked up toward Ozymandias with a slight scowl.

"Well, that's self explanatory. It's hard to really escape his influence, so he feels less like a deity and more like a close contact with extraordinary skills. I guess he's the main reason we all found each other."

As the council talked among themselves, the sentiment slowly stuck to me. "Admittedly, when I first learned I had to visit him—and even as he stood right in front of me—it was hard to believe I was significant enough for this to be a reality."

Once Miyana finished with her cleaning, she pushed her chair out and stood up. "We're all in a strange limbo between normality and divinity. None of us can return to any form of a simple life as if nothing happened, and we lack the skills or tools to achieve enough power and status to be canonized within the Pantheon.

"We're not the first to venture through this vast valley, and we sure aren't the last."

As Solis finished the last of his plate of pellets, he stood up in a similar fashion. "You're kind of born into it, as well. Mandy came from a family of devout cultists. Solis was built devoid of any definition of normalcy."

"I'm different. My family just won the lottery, metaphorically. That's about the only shot you got in climbing up in life."

Ozymandias raised his hand. However, he didn't attempt to interject in the conversation. He idly tapped against the necklace over his chest for a brief few seconds before lowering his hand.

The ex-priest was the last to finish his meal. As Miyana and Solis wandered around the dining hall in an attempt to perform any trivial, unattended duties, Ozymandias was on the cusp of clearing his plate.

Miyana snapped her fingers at Ozymandias as she sarcastically retorted, "Come on, gramps. We're gonna miss the bullet tram to Calcine if you're going to move slower than a snail."

"I'm going as fast as I can," he replied, stifling his laughter, "One more minute, promise."

"Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight..."

"Three minutes!"

"One hundred eighty. One hundred seventy-nine..."

Solis let out a pre-recorded cough as he brought his hand up to his mouth in a fist. "Well, I will leave you two to it. I have some important obligations to attend to around the nexus. Hopefully, once you three return, we will have a functional delivery system."

Ozymandias pushed himself out of his chair by pressing against the table to stand up. "Fantastic! I'll gear Autumn up for the adventure ahead. Shouldn't take too long. Why don't you go and start up the bullet tram, Miyana?"

The swordswoman rolled her eyes in response. "Fine, sure. If you're not back in thirty minutes, I'm leaving the both of you in the nexus."

"It shouldn't take that long, I promise."

"Great, I'll start counting. One thousand eight hundred. One thousand seven hundred ninety-nine..."

Ozymandias soon ushered me up from my seat and pushed me toward the exit of the hall. "Quick, Autumn. We only have one-thousand and ninety-four more seconds left."

"Wait, hey!" I yelped, "My food!"

"I'll have the servants deliver it on the tram in a to-go box, come on!"

With that, we left the lavish dining hall, leaving both Miyana and Solis behind in our little adventure within the complex.

Chapter 5

Ozymandias led me off to a small room tucked away within the nexus’ halls. Inside were a collection of boxes haplessly placed both within the floor and shelves. Two strips of light ran across the ceiling of the room, illuminating the space in whole.

It was hard to pinpoint where anything was. Even as I read the labels, they all took on a naming scheme which eluded me. Ozymandias, however, seemed to know where everything was with confidence.

Out of a random box, he opened the flaps and fished his hands within a collection of various hard-covered books. As his arm moves around the small pool of literature, he would soon pull a strange book with a series of diamonds placed in a checkerboard-like pattern. Upon closer inspection, the diamonds held a pattern of smaller diamonds contained within. These symbols wrapped around the cover, filling the front, spine, and back with these markings.

Ozymandias placed the book in my open hands. “This is the Infinitum Tabula. It’s a book in which the pages are all connected to each other. If one person were to write on one page, all Tabulas receive the same markings. The Sonatans used it to communicate with each other—especially in small groups. Since there’s only a few Tabulas in circulation, we’ve taken full advantage of its scarcity.”

As I peeked at the pages inside the Tabula, I came across a series of scribbled sentences. Each phrase differed in handwriting, denoting a unique voice among the overarching topic. Once Ozymandias slipped a pen into my fingers, I brought it up to the page to lightly strike against the material.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. Nothing had changed. It felt like a normal book to me.

We left the box in its place and continued forward in the storage room. Our trek wasn’t long, however, as Ozymandias reached for another arbitrary box upon the nearby shelf.

“Oh, the item in this box is pretty neat,” he said while fishing his hand around the box, “Inside this box is a Recall Token. If you flip it like a normal coin and allow it to land on the ground, it’ll transport you to the point where it’s attuned to.”

Ozymandias retrieved a handful of golden coins from the depths of the box. On one side of the coin was the bald-headed figure found behind the sundial. The opposite side revealed the same sundial housed within a cave-like structure.

“These were created in the hay-day of the Sonatans,” the ex-priest continued, “They mainly fell out of relevancy for the system of beacons established within the underground.”

As I pocketed the tokens for myself, I raised a question to Ozymandias, “Why don’t we use the beacons, then?”

“Ah, they’re a pain to calibrate. They’re more suited for public use.”

“Strange. I’ll take your word on it.”

The next item Ozymandias revealed to me was an iron bracelet. As usual, he introduced the item with enthusiasm, “This is a micro-shield! It’s not as extravagant as some other defense-oriented devices. However, if anything reaches toward you with enough force, it’ll react by deploying a layer of solid energy on the point of impact.”

Once I connected the bracelet around my wrist, a pulse of energy raced around my body.

Ozymandias reacted to the shield’s presence with a warm smile. “It’ll help in case a stray stalactite breaks loose and falls down, for example. I have one stowed away underneath my jacket!”

The last item I was acquainted with was a small watch. A circular sheet of glass sat within a similar shaped frame. Upon activation, the pane lit up with a bright yellow light. The band of the watch was similar in design to the micro-shield.

“This was actually created by Solis,” Ozymandias explained, “It’s connected to his main processor, and works as a multi-tool of sorts. Mainly, it displays a list of information including the time, date, approximate location, relative location to each user of the watch, battery percentage, and a plethora of other little tidbits!”

I placed the watch upon my right wrist—opposite to the shield. Once I connected the straps around my arm, the device buzzed to life with a slight vibration. From a set of speakers on the side of the frame, I heard Solis’ compressed voice exit the watch, “Hello, Autumn! I see you’ve found the Watch that Receives Information and Statistics Thoroughly, or the WRIST!”

The sudden appearance of Solis caused me to jolt in reaction. Instinctively, I extended my arm away from my body to distance myself from the device. Instinctively, I barked at the watch with a panicked tone, “How do you know it’s me?!”

“Simple,” Solis replied stoically, “Humans naturally shed dead skin cells over a short period of time. I was able to extract a few samples to add to my database of information. Once the watch’s sensor picked up the composition of your skin, I was given an immediate answer with 98% confidence.”

“Great! Fantastic. Not creepy at all.”

“I’m glad you appreciate my impressive infrastructure of information, Autumn. None of the council members seem to share the same joy as me.”

Ozymandias took out his own watch and brought it up to his face. “That was sarcasm, Solis.”

“Oh.” His tone flattened. “I see.”

“That’s about all of the items I’ve wanted you to have! Is there anything you’d like to look for before we go?”

It was hard to think of anything on the fly. My mind blanked almost instantly, and it took me a few seconds of contemplation before the first item revealed itself in speech, “A backpack, maybe?”

“A backpack!” Ozymandias snapped his fingers. “Why didn’t I think of that? Come, I’ve got just the thing for you!”

We retraced our steps within the storage room. Before we fully left, Ozymandias retrieved a small box from the overhead shelf. Once he opened the flaps, a quick scoop revealed a small metallic projector. The device was no bigger than his fingertip, and the lens fit within the face of the cube.

Ozymandias presented the projector by bringing the device closer to my eyes. “This is an add-on to the WRIST Solis designed not too long ago! It’s so recent, he hasn’t been able to create an appropriate acronym.”

“Intriguing.” As I acquainted myself with the cube, I noticed a small notch within the frame of the watch on my wrist. “I assume it’s magnetic and fits in one of the small slots on the WRIST?”

“Correct! If you ever want to store something, simply point the aperture at the item and press on the button on top. It can be retrieved by speaking into the watch.”

“That’s actually kind of impressive. Where does it send the items?”

“I’m not sure, actually! I haven’t really thought about that. Solis mentioned something about a pocket realm, though.”

At the mention of Solis, I expected the watch to beam to life. Almost on cue, my prediction suddenly played in front of my eyes. "It accesses a pocket of space adjacent to our own. The only entrance and exit is through my discretion."

In my peripheral vision, I noticed a blue light flicker in and out. As I brought the object out, I noticed the light originated from the Tabula. Hidden within its symbols was a small gem capable of illumination. Naturally, I flipped through the pages until I landed on a section overwhelmed by a blue tint. Leaving the Tabula open on the page caused the hue to diminish to nothing, leaving only a singular phrase at the top of the page.

AND LAQUE, SIGNED MIYANA.

Miyana's handwriting was crude. Her lines were rushed and her curves were uneven. I was completely blindsided on how she heard our conversation.

Ozymandias flipped open his Tabula around the same time as me. As he read the phrase in full, he let out a small sigh in reaction. "Don't worry about how she heard that, you'll learn in time."

Confusion stained my face. All I could do was dumbfoundedly stare back at Ozymandias as I questioned him, "So Solis and Miyana can listen in on our every word? Don't you find that a little creepy?"

"Well, Miyana doesn't have a direct means to communicate back, but yes. You kind of live with it."

The Tabula's page updated in real time. With every stroke, I watched as the exact motion played out in full. In the end, a second string of words sat underneath the first at an uneven tilt, MANDY'S BACK POCKET.

Ozymandias reached his free hand back into the recesses of his khaki pants. Once his hand returned to my vision, he presented a small wad of goo which stuck to the palm of his hand.

"It's confusing," he reiterated, "You'll learn in due time."

Soon after, we all met up within the nexus' station. The tram's platform held a plethora of posters depicting a wide array of locations. The poster which caught my attention depicted my hometown, Temple Coast. A large port hung over a vanishing sea. Its wooden stilts were submerged in the waves below. The towering buildings were reduced to nothing more than stumps in the background of the image.

The poster depicting the Kingdom of Sol held a similar design. An enlarged sun engulfs the top portion of the image, with the kingdom's tan-colored castle perched atop an overhead hill.

Suddenly, Miyana's voice pierced through my concentrated focus, "I see you're bored enough to look at the posters."

I scrambled in place for a little bit before collecting my composure. As I formulated my words, an annoyed inflection wormed its way through my speech, "Well, there's nothing else to do. I was waiting for you to get here."

"You could talk to Mandy, I've heard he's a well of information you just have to pry open."

Ozymandias was caught off guard by the mention of his name. He gave a brief wave toward the both of us alongside a slight nod.

The station's tunnel slowly illuminated with light. A gradual shift from a pitch black corridor to a blinding flash flushed the hallway whole.

The exterior and interior of the tram reminded me of the trams found in the Kingdom of Sol. The interior, especially, held the same bolted bars which ran across the ceiling. Because of the cart's vacancy, we all sat down in a small booth situated near the wall.

The scenery wasn't as grand as the underground cities as previously seen. There was nothing more than a barricade of concrete walls and occasional overhead lights.

Miyana preoccupied herself with an unfamiliar scroll. She studied a selection of text caught between two sets of rollers. Ozymandias, on the opposite side of the booth, read a book titled "The Great Regression". Plastered on the book's cover was an image of an underground metropolis taken from afar. The city's lights softly hugged the outline of the buildings.

As he placed the book down on the table, his attention remained forward. Ozymandias furrowed his eyebrows while he relaxed his shoulders. Without any extra movements, he let out a somber sigh and slumped forward. "I know this is a strange question, but I have to ask. Do you have any regrets in life?"

It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. After looking back between Miyana and off toward the empty seats, I trailed my words off within my reply, "No...?"

"You've lived a long life, then. Were you ready to accept your death, Autumn?"

"Not really. I mean, it felt like I left my world too soon."

"Too soon? What do you mean?"

"I wasn't able to save anyone from the Veinfinders—I couldn't save my mom. I don't know if that world still exists out there. I can't tell if they're okay."

"Right, I understand."

"I don't regret anything, but I do feel remorse. If that makes any sense."

"No, I get what you mean. You did everything you wanted to in life?"

"After I finished my education, I fully expected to aimlessly wander until my destiny called me. I never expected my village to be ransacked, nor did I expect to go on this big journey across Caelitra."

"Makes sense. Have you acclimated to the change in pace or are you still adjusting?"

"Oh, I'm well acquainted with the adventuring life by now."

I idly tapped my fingertips against the metal top of the table.

"What about you? I bet you asked the question with some answer in mind."

"Oh, me?"

"Yeah. Who else would I be talking to?"

Miyana interjected herself into the conversation, "Why yes, Autumn, I do have a few regrets. Thank you for asking me."

Ozymandias rolled his eyes.

"I'm messing with you, kid. I've got nothing of value for you."

The ex-priest pressed his elbows against the table. His gaze wandered off toward the tram's scenery as he contemplated his answer. "Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if I was a little more confident as a kid."

I raised an eyebrow toward Ozymandias. "More confident? What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm pretty daring as-is, but there's only so much I'll risk. I'll sacrifice an arm and a leg if it means saving a life, but beyond that..."

Ozymandias sighed.

"I stepped away from priesthood because I couldn't see myself any happier. I've spent weeks adventuring across the land without rest. Once I settled down, it just didn't feel the same."

"Being ordained takes years of effort, why did you go through it all if it wasn't your calling?"

"I wanted to make everyone around me happy; my mom, my dad. You're born with a special gift, and everyone proclaims my destiny's already written for me."

"I get that, yeah."

"I have a great relationship with Skymarcher, don't get me wrong. Once I had no one else to impress, I just had to find something else that would impress me instead."

I softly nodded in response.

We both stopped talking afterward. I didn’t know how to salvage the conversation. Ozymandias’ mood had completely soured. Miyana, on the other hand, seemed to be unaffected. She reached her hand out toward the ex-priest and tapped her fingers against her palm in a one-handed clap. Without another word, Ozymandias returned the pink sludge which rested in his pocket.

The tram’s rhythmic thumping filled the silence of the cart. As I focused on the noise, I noticed the chair’s subtle vibration. It was almost therapeutic. With nothing else to occupy my mind, I soon fell asleep with my head resting in my arms.

My dreams resumed my previous recounts. Slowly, the kingdom’s scenery faded in as a blanket across the ground. Past the condensed city were the open fields of the island. I couldn’t make out much of the ground or structures other than the overwhelming gray ground.  

I knew how cold the table's surface was. The tram's muffled rumbling had long been forgotten in my head. The distant chirping of birds and whistling winds filled my ears. As I pressed my elbows against the curved railing, I could feel the pressure between my arms and the barrier.

Suddenly, the door behind me creaked open. I could've sworn the footsteps beforehand were audible, but I couldn't identify them among the soundscape. Laque peeped his head through the door as both his fingers wrapped around to support him.

His tone had quieted since we last met. The prince started his conversation with a list of updates, "I've notified the guards not to disturb this room. If you need anything from them, there's a speaker near this door that you can use to call for. Caesar said he'll be staying with some relatives while he's out. Is there anything else you need?"

Laque had given me his bedroom to stay in. His bedside curtains separated the king-sized chamber from the greater room. A mirror decorated with an ornate border sat flush within the light red walls. Most impressive of all was his collection of books. One wall was dedicated to housing various literature. I'm not sure if he mentioned if they were off limits.

Nonetheless, I replied to him with a hint of confusion, "Are you sure you want me to take your room? Where are you going to stay?"

"Ah, don't worry about me," Laque scoffed, "I've got other places to sleep. Even if it isn't in the castle, I'm sure Domi wouldn't mind me crashing out at his lover's palace for a few nights."

"Well, if you insist. I wouldn't pass up a bedroom like this for the world."

"No one would! You'd be stupid to, at least."

I let out a reactionary chuckle. His statement wasn't at all amusing to me, but I wanted to show my gratitude somehow.

"Besides, I know training today was rough. If I worked myself down to the bone and had to sleep in some tucked-away guest room, I'd feel a little demotivated. Would you?"

"If you put it that way, yeah. I would feel a little demotivated."

Earlier, I spent most of the day learning the basics of Ichor and Ambrosia. I had a solid grasp on what Ichor was, but learning of Ambrosia felt like its own beast. It wasn't much of a real fourth color. Rather, it was a layer. Ambrosia alone isn’t a stable color. There has to be a foundation for it to rest on.

Laque spent the rest of the allotted time showcasing how Ambrosia worked. It was strange to see it in action. There was only so much he could do alone, however. He used my body as a conduit to create a concentration of Ambrosia on a nearby vase. While the pottery barely changed in normal view, a thin layer of Ambrosia covered the vase from base to lip.

"Ambrosia is everywhere," Laque explained, "It's in trace amounts throughout the fabric of reality. Think of your body as a magnet. You're able to create mountains out of microscopic molehills if you work hard enough."

Light manipulation, he called it. Like any other Ichor-based ability, controlling light takes up energy just as any other activity does. Even if it wasn't Ambrosia, I could shift the hue of an object by attracting the tones around it.

Laque's explanation echoed in my mind, "Like camouflage. I think that's about as good as you're going to get currently. Ambrosia is a conduit of energy akin to Ichor. It's processed differently in the body compared to Ichor."

As I pressed my hand against the Ambrosia-layered vase, I harnessed the same feeling Laque had coursed through my body. My concentration weighed itself on my fingertips as I felt the individual muscles of my hand strain.

Alas, the Ambrosia repelled from my hand. An invisible ring hung around the vase's center.

"That's interesting," Laque commented, "Not desired, but a useful trait to consider. Allow me."

As the prince controlled his energy through my body like a puppet, the Ambrosia returned back to the vase in force. Suddenly, the pot disappeared completely from normal view.

"Ambrosia—in high densities—absorbs color. This is more than camouflage, but it's harder to perform. Compacting Ambrosia works similar to compacting a bundle of clothes in a bag. You are also capable of this. Not after our training, but at most down the line."

For a brief moment, my sense's were completely overwhelmed by the excess of energy. My eyes fogged with a purple hue as I heard a deluge of voices whisper around my being. Every breath felt heavier as the last, as my mouth further dried with each second.

Laque noticed the state I was in and quickly retracted his concentration. When I looked back at him, his face soured with his attention shied away from me—remorse.

Even his tone took on a meek volume, "That's enough training for today. We'll have enough time to roughen everything out, don't worry."

There was a lot to consider from day one of work. Every once in a while, I placed my hand upon a surface and concentrated my focus to pulse the Ambrosia away from my hand. Laque didn't seem to mind my off-handed practice. If anything, he smiled with each attempt.

Once he finished through his updates, Laque stepped through the door in full. He slowly shut the door behind him with his eyes glued upon the detail. "Sorry if I seem a little too forward. This is all a little much to process, even for me."

I simply shrugged. The king-sized mattress felt like a cloud underneath my weight. I wonder why he gave me his bedroom.

"You can say that again," I jabbed, "You've lived your life in specialty. I've been thrown into the extraordinary against my will."

Laque feebly laughed. It took him a moment to muster a response, "That's life, sometimes. Either you're born afflicted by luck or devoid of circumstance. Fate's a cruel tryst."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Autumn, do you believe in free will?"

I looked back at Laque with a confused expression.

"Ever since man's gained the ability to think, we've questioned if we've truly divorced ourselves from destiny."

"I'd like to believe so, at least. There has to be some form of agency I have in life."

I watched Laque's face contort. I couldn't pinpoint if it was an exact expression other than a processed reaction.

"What, is that not the case?"

"Well, yes and no. If anyone's able to see the future, then that means it's a definitive point in time. Therefore; if there is a future, there is no free will."

"If you phrase it that way, yeah. I get what you're saying."

"So far, there isn't a future. The closest I've ever seen to foresight is Domi's ability to see all possible outcomes at once. Otherwise, nothing. I'm sure if you asked him, he'd give a better answer."

"Right, of course."

Laque occupied himself by pacing around the rounded carpet on the ground. He held his hands behind his back with his head leaned forward. For a moment, I saw his left hand glow with a yellow aura. The effect concentrated itself on his middle finger and thumb before he would snap his fingers. Soon after, the aura diminished.

Then, he stopped. Laque planted his feet in the ground and fixed his attention on me. "Free will exists only in the common man."

"Pardon?" His straight-faced delivery knocked my train of thought out of place. "Common man?"

"Realistically, no one has free will. You're constantly shaped and formed by the influences of your life from the day you were born. Your destiny implants itself as your ambitions, or haunts you if ignored. The only people who can separate themselves the farthest from their destiny are those who are born without talent or heritage."

I couldn't muster a response. There wasn't anything within my thoughts that would meet the requirements for speech.

"It's worse if you're born with a gift. That's where you and I are the same, Autumn. Even if you've been unaware of your Ambrosian origins, it's influenced your way of life below your subconscious. There'll be a point where it'll all make sense to you, and only you. Do you get what I'm saying?"

Slowly, I nodded.

"That's good. I envy those who're born in this world without merit. All they have to their name is the skin on their back and their families' silent professions. They'll spend the bulk of their lives living in the melds of society up until they're buried in a grave which'll hold their name for a few centuries, at minimum.

"They're forgotten as quickly as they're remembered. They'll live a life fulfilled and with purpose—a feeling fueled by freedom. In their lives, there were no expectations to meet. That's what it means to have free will. No strings attached. The less anchored you are to life's whims, the harder it is to predict you."

A smile curved upon Laque's face. Not long after, he'd clasp his hands in front of his chest.

"If you ignore your destiny, it simply haunts you. If you're born to a guild of musicians, you'll forever see the patterns of the fates you've abandoned until you die. There's no escape from it, yet you're given that choice. Isn't that strange?"

"A little, yeah. Does this have to do with the name 'Azathoth'?"

"You're catching on. I'm not sure his influences shaped how much of your life. I'd be concerned if you were the reincarnation of the Nightmare Veteran. Given your connection with Ambrosia and your overall appearance—have you seen yourself in a mirror recently?"

"Not in a while, no."

"There's one behind you. Take a look."

I stood before Laque's ornate mirror. At first, I noticed my straightened strands of hair. Laid between my eyes was a spike of brown hair which reached down to the bridge of my nose. Only now did I notice how thin my eyebrows were.

My outstretched hair laid over my outfit’s shoulder pads. Hours earlier, Laque gave me a spare of his clothes to wear in lieu of my set of deteriorating clothes. They were a lot more comfortable to wear than those puffy cotton garments. The overall's straps were a little burdensome to me, as well.

I watched Laque approach from the mirror's view. He stood a fair distance away before continuing with his thoughts, "You look strikingly similar to Fasol. I'm convinced you're closely related, at least."

I repeated the name back to him while attempting to respect the language, "Fasol?"

"Yes. Solfami Laremore Laredo—his full name. I think you're questioning if the definition is proving enough."

"I don't know what that means."

"It doesn't mean anything now. It used to translate to a name, but since they've been practically forgotten..."

"Right, I understand. Strange."

"I'm done prodding you for the day. I'll wake you up tomorrow once it's time to continue with our work."

"Sounds good. If I'm not well-rested by the time you wake me up, then your mattresses are a sham."

Laque lightly laughed at my comment. He turned his attention to the exit. Not another word was spoken as he exited his bedroom.

However, I was curious. Before he completely stepped out, I called out to him, "Wait! before you go..."

The door stopped before it closed completely. Laque's head popped out from the other side in a similar manner to the beginning of our encounter.

"I don't get why people call you a deity," I continued, "So far, you've just been some prince with some extraordinary set of skills."

His smile returned back to him. "I thought you'd never ask. Step outside and look at the moon. I think I've wasted enough of your time."

Quickly, I raced outside to step out to the balcony. Nothing had changed—neither the city nor the sky.

Out of the daytime sky, a selection of stars glistened among the cloudless sea. They were bright enough to contrast the moon's luminosity. It was impossible to count how many dots littered the sky, but it was difficult to find a void among the newly created collage.

Out from the sun's radius spiked a radiant spear. It was far more concentrated than a simple solar flare. The arrow quickly pierced the center of the moon. A barrage of high-speed projectiles and debris escaped the entrance and exits of the satellite. It was silent. I couldn't see the damage done to the moon itself, but the light of the beam illuminated the aftermath up until it soared past the horizon and out toward deep space.

It was silent. All the stars slowly vanished behind the daytime sea as the moon's position noticeably changed in the sky. I didn't have a frame of reference to go off of, but I could only assume the orbit was off-centered. I remember by the time of my death, the moon had completely vanished from the night sky. It was sent spiraling out toward the vast expanse of night. We lost our moon.

Laque never explained what caused the spike exactly. There wasn't a reason for the stars' presence or the moon's disappearance. Even as I asked him, he wouldn't say a word. The heavens bent to his will. The myths surrounding him must've been true. If there was anyone who could sew the night sky together, it would be him; the Unconquerable Sun.

Chapter 6

I opened my eyes to the familiar view of the tram. Nothing had changed between when I first dozed off and now. Ozymandias continued to preoccupy himself within his book. Miyana, on the other hand, shuffled a deck of cards between her hands.

After a few sets, she tapped Ozymandias’ shoulder while presenting the stack of cards to him. “The kid’s awake. Do you want to play Match-Ups?”

The ex-priest looked up from his book in confusion. He closed the book with his finger on the opened page to keep his place. After a moment of contemplation, he responded, “Match-Ups? Isn’t that a kid’s game?”

“No one’s got any money or stakes to gamble. Unless the both of you suddenly get comfortable with strip poker.”

“Match-Ups it is!”

Miyana throws out the cards one by one. As I take a look at the cards, I notice the face card’s design. Mirrored across the card’s diagonal diameter was Goddess Fortuna. Her simplified depiction emphasized her helmet’s horned design and polished armor.

Before now, I was acquainted with the basic jesters, queens, and kings on the card’s faces. Seeing Goddess Fortuna take the place of the queen filled in the gaps of what the rest of the faces could be.

“Right!” Ozymandias chirped, “We’ve got ten minutes until arrival, so this should kill enough time until then. Shall we begin?”

Miyana placed the rest of the cards on the center of the table while she spread out her hand within her index and thumb. “Sure. Got any sevens?”

“Nope! Scavenge.”

I wasn’t sure if I was up next, or if it was Ozymandias’ turn. I got my answer soon as I noticed both of their eyes looked on toward me. “My turn, right. Got any queens, Miyana?”

She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Better luck next time, flower girl. Scavenge.”

The next card on top of the deck was a king card with the depiction of Skymarcher. A nebulous figure covered the card with a single orange fox mask obscuring a wisp sat on top of his torso.

Ozymandias’ face lit up with glee. He brought his cards close as he pinched a specific card among the pile. “So, Autumn, I’ve heard you have a queen on hand?”

That only confirmed my suspicion. I asked the wrong person. Once I revealed my queen to Ozymandias, he placed the rest of his deck face down to reveal a similar queen in his possession.

The rest of the game continued on as-usual. Ozymandias’ spirit seldom wavered while me and Miyana kept a stoic glare.

I already knew who would win in the end. With a few minutes left I decided to chat with Ozymandias alongside our game of Match-Ups. “So, remind me again, what are we looking for in our trip to Calcine?”

“Our trip?” He glanced up from his deck, “Oh, right! I haven’t told you what we were looking for, have I?”

“You have not.”

“My mistake! Before I continue, any twos?”

“Nope, Scavenge.”

Ozymandias snatched up the topmost card from the deck.

“As you were saying, Mandy.”

“Calcine, for the most part, has a few areas sanctioned off by a few sectors of Fortuna's Army, aptly named the Historians. Some settlements like the Grand Capital and Almahci are heavily guarded, while some unimportant areas like the Excavation Zones and the Outskirts.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Solis found a small Parabellum colony deep in the Excavation Zone near Spaceripper’s Ruins. If we don’t find anything of value there, we’ve got another plan to scope out another colony somewhere along the Gravel Beach. The main problem with this location is we’d have to sneak around a platoon of Historians.”

“You know now that you’ve mentioned it, that’s going to be our hail mary.”

“Oh, no doubt about it. It’s best to check the first point of interest just in case, you know?”

“As long as we get something of value from it.”

Ozymandias reached into his deck and handed Miyana one of his cards. With her final pair, she placed it in her pile and locked her fingers together afterward. In triumph, she proclaimed, “That’s my last card, I win.”

The ex-priest raised an eyebrow as he looked down toward his deck. “Not so fast, we’re going by pairs not by time.”

“Well you should’ve said that beforehand.”

“It’s the standard while playing Match-Ups. I would’ve called if we were playing by time.”

“Whatever, sure. I’m sure none of you will surpass me in pairs anyway.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t be too sure. There’s still a quarter of the deck left.”

Miyana crossed her arms.

“We’ve got another two minutes until the tram pulls into the station. I think that’ll be enough time to wrap up the game.”

“On a quarter of a deck? I’d rather pack up than play a speed round.”

“Try me! Got any nines, Autumn?”

The next minute quickly devolved into chaos. We each barked numbers and faces at each other as we hastily drew and threw cards around the table. By the end, we both ended the game with a battlefield of cards between us.

Ozymandias quickly pointed his finger around the table. He softly counted up under his tongue before speaking the final number out loud. At the end of it all, he looked up at me with a smile. “Looks like you have the most pairs, Autumn! Congratulations.”

We uprooted ourselves from the tram's seating to exit the cart. Once we exited out into the station, Ozymandias led us further past the platform.

He motions toward a set of scooters similar to Solis' vehicle. At first, I was confused at why he would show them off to me. Once Ozymandias walked up and inserted a few gel-batteries into the machine, the depleted scooter pushed itself into the air and stabilized above the ground.

Miyana and I both followed suit. She fished out a few pods similar in design to Solis' breakfast and handed them to me.

"This'll last us the day," she assured me, "Ozymandias forgot to equip you with some batteries. Remind me, I'll fix that later."

We both exited the station to hurry down a winding cavern corridor. Our scooters' lights illuminated the widely carved path. Every hundred or so meters a dim lamp sat as milestones along the way. As we approached urban outposts, the cavern slowly narrowed into a structured tunnel with metallic designs into its own highway station. The opposite effect occurred as we exited out to the wilderness again.

There wasn't much to write home about the caverns minus their varied stalactites and stalagmites on the edges. Any trace of civilization rarely showed itself. However, nearly fifteen minutes in, we encountered a tunnel which expanded out to a vast tunnel.

Plastered among the walls of the highway were various graffiti markings and advertisements about the Grand Capital. Two of the most prominent symbols were Parabellum's dagger and a gem of an unfamiliar company—Technology of the Ruined Underground.

A continuous road of sidewalks formed the lanes of the highway as they hugged the walls. Every kilometer was a concrete door labeled EXIT. The waist-high neon lights and overhead lights guarded by iron bars slightly clued me in to our whereabouts.

Miyana, suddenly, fills one of her palms up with a handful of slime. With her fingers crushing the gelatinous material, she opens them with two identical earbuds. She sped up to ride alongside Ozymandias. Once Miyana tosses him an earbud, she slows down significantly to match speed with me. My catch wasn't fully secure. Once the earbud bounced off my palm, I frantically clamped my hand down to stop its motion.

Without question, I inserted the earbud in my left ear. A high-pitched voice imitated the sound of static before returning a few coherent words, "Testing, testing. Can you hear me?"

The other voice spoke within a falsetto range. I couldn't tell if this was on purpose or if this was their natural voice. I wasn't sure how to respond, so I kept my eyes on the road as I talked, "I can hear you. Are you supposed to sound like that?"

"It's the slimes. They're listening to what you say and they're relaying it as true to the source as it can."

"Ah, that's interesting to know."

The voice continues with a noticeable accent—similar to Ozymandias', "If you're concerned about whether the Historians will find us, they don't have a clear access point to this specific tunnel. The exit points have long been out of commission—we tried. Unless they're keen on the idea of falling a few hundred feet, we're completely separated."

The active hums and whirs of the scooter fill in the gaps between conversation. The original voice—one in line with Miyana's cadences—returns to pose a new question, "What ever happened to TRU after the Sonatans gradually migrated to Caelitra?"

"I think it just disappeared." Without the president of the company to man the helm, it mainly just dissolved."

"Through the people? Did he control his workers like slaves?"

"Kind of? Well, yes, he did. The main reason TRU crumbled was because of profits. No one needed their services to survive underground when they could just leave. They stuck it out to the very end—I think fifty years since the beginning of the migration?"

"Wild. Was Parabellum on the same path as TRU?"

"Primarily, yes. Most of their issues came with their head scientist suddenly vanishing. Without his guidance, the main contractors cut their deals and left. I think the company still exists somewhere in Caelitra, I just can't remember where and how."

"Make sense."

"Since Caelitra gave the Sonatans an ample supply of resources to survive on an individual level, TRU was proven worthless. Capitalism exists in the conditions that all other resources have been exploited and all that remains is human life. It keeps you busy, it stimulates the economy, and exists as a renewable commodity."

"We still have to lug around coins, though. I don't get why it 'died with TRU' when I have to deal with its whale fall consequences."

"Oh, it has. Money exists as a means of value rather than a necessity of life. It's easier to quantify goods and services and to trade upon the middle man than to try and justify a ratio between two foreign needs."

"It's just a tool, then?"

"Yes, it's just a tool. Didn't they teach you this during your education?"

"I didn't get one—I was taught under my mother's guidance."

"That makes sense. Family traditions are harder to break than bad habits."

We left the Grand Capital's general vicinity as indicated by the pathway's diminishing quality. The expansive, information-plagued walls rescind to nothing more than a set of lanterns and a spiraling path.

"Just a few more minutes," Ozymandias reminded us.

The scenery was nothing more than boring. After the bare minimum of stimulation through the Grand Capital's sector, the rest of the way over dragged on for what felt like hours. 

Miyana seemed to be bored as well. With one hand on the scooter, she used her free hand to throw a small spherical object in front of her. Once it bounced off of the ground, the ball bolted back and past her hand. With a quick flick of her wrist, she turned her palm to face behind her. The ball thrusted back into her hand by an unknown force. This process continued with each catch.

We stopped near a small settlement off the cavern's highway. Ozymandias parked his scooter near a collection of crates. Miyana contributed to the impromptu pile before she left to join the ex-priest. I didn't want to stray far from their routine.

A thinly-traced path led to groupings of hemispherical tents. Canvas walls drape themselves alongside the cavern, obscuring the rocky walls in an impromptu room. Before a sealed metallic door was an oil lantern which had long run dry.

Ozymandias stepped up to the door with his gaze fixed on the nearby number pad. He soon brought his hand up to his chin in contemplation as he observed the details. "So far, it looks like the two, six, seven, and nine keys are the most weathered. If we were to assume the first number isn't forgotten as often as the rest of the sequence..."

Amidst his ramblings, Miyana stepped up with her WRIST near her mouth. "Solis, search the Parabellum Archives for number pad combinations. Sort them by location."

I couldn't understand what Ozymandias was saying anymore. I lost my focus five seconds in. I watched Miyana flick her finger against the watch's screen for a brief few seconds before pressing her finger on the pane. She brought the WRIST up close to her face while typing in a series of numbers on the door's number pad. A consonant beep chirps from the pad's speaker alongside the numbers' backlight flashing light green in response.

At first, Ozymandias was dumbfounded. After some moments in contemplation, he snapped his fingers and reassured himself, "That's right, the Parabellum Archives. I forgot Laque saved a copy before the company crumbled."

The interior designed itself around the cavern's restrictions. A series of rooms continued forward with individual hallways separating different-sized openings. The first room contained a series of crates filled with supplies. White boards line the walls with a litany of unknown text. The most I'm able to glean from their neatly sorted display are a series of numbers and equations. I think I saw a matrix in the bottom right of one of the boards.

Miyana suddenly broke the settlement's silence with her own thoughts, "So, Mandy, give me a rundown. What was this place all about? What are we looking for here, exactly?"

Ozymandias took a moment for himself to reply. He began his explanation with a slight hum. "If I have my information correct, this is the research team tasked with finding a way to break through Spaceripper's armor."

"That explains all the weird symbols, like all these triangles and a bunch of x's."

"They weren't successful in finding a solution. Instead, their research led them to create a substance that can directly counter 'Eigenmagic'—what we call Ichor today."

"And how did they achieve it?"

"I don't know, actually! That's a great question, maybe Solis has a digestible answer."

"You know what? Forget it. I think I'll stay wondering."

"Suit yourself. This is mainly for your benefit, actually. Since the solution they found is a substance, they were able to apply it to a wide range of weapons. Old World Firearms, MEL weapons, and most importantly blades in the form of a thin coating."

"You have my attention."

"If you're able to land a decent hit on General Ravsangal, that'll allow the coating to enter her bloodstream and react with the Ichor to neutralize it. It'll even the playing field out by a significant amount."

Without another word, Miyana breaks out in a sprint further through the research lab.

"Seems like that satisfied her as a response."

I waited until Miyana was fully out of the conversation before questioning Ozymandias, "General Ravsangal? I swear I've heard that name before."

"Oh, you probably have," he reassured me, "Not a day goes by where Miyana doesn't mention her name."

"Is there some sort of feud between those two?"

"More than a feud, I think. They both applied for the Head General position in Fortuna's Army. Ravsangal won out due to some—and I'm paraphrasing from Miyana here—some outlandish prediction spewed out by Goddess Fortuna herself."

"So she lost because she was destined to?"

"Yep, right on the money."

"What was the exact wording of the prediction?"

"It's been a while. If I remember correctly, it's something like 'let the flowers guide you to your greatest desires', or something like that."

"Interesting."

"According to Miyana, she didn't fulfill the fortune and so she wasn't chosen."

"Well, that sounds kind of outlandish. Was she more qualified than Ravsangal?"

"Through her recounts, yes."

"So Goddess Fortuna turned her down because of reasons outside her control?"

"Sounds about right."

I furrowed my eyebrows in response.

"It's Goddess Fortuna. If she says you're unlucky, you can't really say anything against that."

"I get that. I mean, I guess I'd also be inconsolable if that were me."

"I would too. I'm not sure why she targets her anger on General Ravsangal, but she hasn't been the best in terms of leadership."

"Oh? How so?"

Suddenly, Miyana's voice bounced around the empty chambers of the laboratory, "Found it!"

Ozymandias and I both rushed through the opened doors toward Miyana's location. In her hand was a small glass vial with an opaque gray substance inside. A strip of tape runs across the top of the vial with a small string of text written on; AEM-2.

"Okay!" She cheerfully exclaimed, "We're all done here. Let's head back and grab some grub back at the dining hall!"

Ozymandias let out a small laugh. He reached his hand behind his head to rub the backside of his neck. "You seem pretty eager to get out of here. Did you forget we still need to investigate the settlement near the Gravel Beach?"

"Oh, come on. Do we have to?"

"Do you want more of an advantage against Ravsangal?"

Miyana remained silent.

"Here, I'll compromise. I'll have Solis deliver some food, and by the time we reach the Gravel Beach, he'll be there with some lunch. Sound good?"

"Ah, sure, whatever. How long's the trip over then?"

"A little more than an hour."

"Oh come on!"

"We can't take the main route through the Grand Capital since we'll run into some Historians on the way, so we have to navigate around their highway outposts."

There was a brief moment of silence before Miyana let out a small harumph.

"It won't take too long. Why don't you place an order now while I communicate with Solis?"

"Okay, Mandy," she sarcastically replied, "Whatever you say."

Miyana broke from the group with heavy footsteps accompanying her departure.

Before I'm able to put in my two cents, Ozymandias walks over and pats me on the shoulder twice. "Don't worry about her, Autumn. She gets angry whenever she's hungry."

Something wasn't adding up in my head. I've completely lost track of the time. I looked down toward my watch to see the centermost numbers read 1:05 PM. How much time have we spent on the road?

We retraced our steps inside the cavern highways. Miyana remained in the back of the line as I occupied myself between her and Ozymandias. I couldn't think of anything to kill the time. Counting the lanterns eventually grew tiring.

The recently retrieved vial came to mind. With a finger pressed against the earbud, I posed my question, "So, what's with the sword?"

"Don't press hard on the earbud," she warned, "It hurts the slime."

"Right, sorry."

"It was a common trend among my hometown. We were infatuated with a lot of media involving heroic swordsmen. Civilized Caelitra doesn't need any sort of protection, it was more of just a past-time."

"That makes sense."

"Once I won a few championships, it kind of felt like I found my calling. Problem was the lack of harder things to fight. You're stuck at the top with nowhere else to go but down. It's a niche skill."

"This place has to be crawling with some hostile monsters—anything, I would assume. Wouldn't it make sense for Ozymandias to bring you for protection?"

"No to the first question, yes to the second. Calcine is completely abandoned. Aside from my slime, I'm just about useless."

"Nothing? No feral dogs? Dwellers? There has to be some groupings of people who'd kill us for trespassing, at least."

"The Historians cleared the place up long ago. Plus, Calcine wouldn't have any of those things that you mentioned. Feral dogs? What are they gonna eat, moss?"

"I guess so. Not even goblins?"

"Goblins are about as made up as cats."

"Didn't the Pre-Sonatans have cats as pets?"

"According to the records, there's no proof."

I took a second to ponder Miyana's statement.

"Listen, I'm about as bummed out as you are that I can't do anything with my set of skills. I hate riding this janky scooter around for hours on end searching through meaningless junk for some minor advantage against someone doused in luck. I'd love to slice open a shambling corpse or seven. Heck, I'd like to give some Historians a run for their money."

"Well why don't you?"

"Mandy says that'll only anger Goddess Fortuna. They have a reason to harm us for trespassing, but we have no right to do the same back."

"That sounds unfair, if anything."

"It is! If I had the opportunity to fend off some Historians to investigate what they're hiding in the Grand Capital, I would've done it by now. Sword fighting's often seen as an act of defense than an act of power, which sucks. I spent a decade of my life climbing the ladders and for what?"

"For status?"

"I don't want status! If I wasn't hidden away from the world, I'd have to deal with an onslaught of rookies challenging me for my title. Do you know how tiring that gets? One minor slip up on their side and it's over—that's how unbalanced the matchup is. There's no challenge!"

The earbud replicates the noise of a cough.

"I could've joined the war effort in the Heartland, but that's the same problem. I've got nothing."

"Right, I get you."

It was hard to relate to Miyana. The most I could offer her were a few sympathizing words every now and again. Once she had nothing more to say, I prolonged my silence. The conversation left a lot to ponder on, so I found the time well spent.

We took an exit off the cavern highway off a rugged path. The tunnel opened up to an expansive shore with a never-ending sea. Skylights of sunshine illuminated the beach's water. Every once in a while, a stalactite broke off from the ceiling and fell into the sea beneath.

The scooters handled the uneven terrain smoothly. We coasted along the thick blanket of pebbles. I couldn't see myself spending a vacation here.

Behind us was the Grand Capital. Its illuminant lights were barely a match for the sun's rays. I couldn't see much of a barricade gating the city from us. Was it all soldiers?

Ozymandias stuck his right hand out to point toward one of the skylights. "Look over there! Since we're directly underneath the Heartland, these skylights extend up to the surface. Unfortunately, the city above uses the opening as a trash chute."

Clumps of waste and trash fell from the heavens and into the murky waters. An island of trash made itself clear through the repeated breaking of glass and fragile objects and impacts of filled trash bags.

Only now did I hear the waves breaking upon the gravel shores. The waters' motions were muted over the waterfall of trash and the scooter's active hum.

We found refuge in a small grotto off the gravel shore. Our scooters remained near the lip of the cavern while we ventured forward. Loose scribblings of various pigments etched themselves among the wall. Various supports of both metal and wooden frames kept the cave from collapsing in on itself.

As we delved deeper into the grotto, the concentration of Ambrosia increased proportionally. At first, it appeared as nothing more than a few flakes. Over time, it would overwhelm the scribbles and posters on the wall. 

Eventually, we encountered a web of Ambrosia sealing the rest of the chamber off. Miyana and Ozymandias continued forward. They both ran into the wall of Ambrosia at the same time, causing the two of them to briefly retreat and rub their foreheads in reaction.

Miyana was the first to speak, "Force field!"

Ozymandias went to the wall to press his hand against the material. He ran his fingertips across the webs, smearing a thin layering of Ambrosia in the process. There was a solid layer which he wasn't able to push away.

"It has to be the work of Parabellum," he concluded, "I assume it's some machine that solidifies the air into a solid form for preservation. It'd be too time consuming for me to try and dig out."

Miyana clasped her hands together. "Well! Looks like we have no choice but to turn back."

I couldn't switch my sight to see the barricade without Ambrosia. When I closed my right eye, my vision was equivalent to nothing—a black expanse. Despite this fact, I walked up to the barricade with my outstretched hand. Once I pressed my fingertips against the solid material, I repelled the Ambrosia away from my hands in a concentration of energy.

The Ambrosia only repelled so far. It took me a few more attempts and a bit of maneuvering to create a gap wide enough to fit me through.

Miyana and Ozymandias were dumbfounded. They watched me step past the barrier after a performance rivaling that of a mime. Miyana raised a finger up as if she were to ask a question. However, she slowly lowered her hand after a moment of contemplation.

Ozymandias was the first to speak, "It's Ambrosia, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"I should've guessed that, honestly. Looks like we've got more to explore!"

Miyana let out an audible groan. After I dug my feet in a horizontal line to indicate the barrier's opening, they navigated through the entrance and led the way deeper into the grotto.

We reached the end of the cavern after another minute of walking. A domed interior covered in various wooden tables surrounded a circular platform. Ambrosia veins wrapped around the ceiling and scurried down a smoothened stalactite that pointed down toward the center.

The composition of the room looked eerily similar to the laboratory I saw after I died.

Miyana tapped the tip of the stalactite with her unsheathed sword. "So, what's this about? Doesn't look like something we can carry back."

"Not necessarily." Ozymandias clicked his tongue and shook his head. "According to Parabellum, this is a prototype of something they call 'The Realizer'."

"What a stupid name. Maybe I'm glad they're no longer around."

"The head engineer of Parabellum designed It after his involvement with a similar concept known as 'The Severer'. While the Severer removed a concept from existence, the Realizer would load any item or concept full of Eigenmagic. I'm not sure if they were talking about Ichor or Ambrosia here."

I pointed out the Ambrosia veins before replying, "It's definitely Ambrosia."

"Oh! Well, then we've found the right machine. Do you still have the vial on you, Miyana?"

She retrieved the vial from her pocket and placed it in the center of the platform. Afterward, Miyana stepped back and sheathed her blade back behind her.

"I believe Solis will arrive shortly after we activate the vial. Initially, this whole thing used to be connected up to the surface with the Blight. I think there's enough charge stored up to power up the vial and nothing else."

Miyana looked back to the handle of her sword before returning her gaze to the Realizer. After a moment of contemplation, she voiced her thoughts, "Say, wouldn't there be a better use of this thing than a small vial?"

"Well, I'm not sure about that. The Realizer packs Ambrosia into its target assuming it can keep hold of it. Think of it like filling a gel-battery."

"I see. What if we blast my sword?"

"I don't think that'd do much? If you're thinking it'll turn your sword into a conduit, it'll do the exact opposite. If you channel Ichor into an Ambrosia-ridded blade, it'll nullify. The vial nullifies Ichor on affliction, remember?"

"Shoot, you're right."

Almost on cue, the two slowly turned their attention toward me.

"Hey, Autumn. You wouldn't mind getting hit with an unknown amount of Ambrosia, would you?"

The question initially perplexed me. It took me a moment to stammer out a response, "What do you mean 'unknown amount of Ambrosia'?"

"Say we hypothetically tie you up underneath the Realizer," Miyana continued, "What's the worst that could happen? You're already hopped up on Ambrosia."

"I'm not sure if I'd like that. What about your vial? Isn't that more important?"

"Well, yes. But I could always have you activate it yourself."

Miyana took the vial off the table and violently shook it. The gray substance quickly shined a violet hue before returning back to its gray base.

"Think about the science, Autumn. What if this makes you the strongest person in Caelitra? If you die again, you're already an expert on dealing with the afterlife!"

"I don't even know how I was revived to begin with."

"Ah, Skymarcher will bring you back. He's got an itch for tension."

Ozymandias stepped behind Miyana. He reached his hand over her shoulder and rested his palm against her.

"You don't have to listen to her, Autumn," he reassured me, "If you don't want to go through with this, you don't have to. I know how scary a choice like this can be, so there's no shame in saying no."

Miyana lifted Ozymandias' hand off of her shoulder and scoffed. "Oh, there's clearly shame. We won't know what'll happen to you!"

The ex-priest glared her down. Miyana seemed to notice through her peripheral vision, causing her to sigh in defeat.

"Or, you can say no."

Ozymandias' smile overruled his previous demeanor.

It took me a moment to process the decision. My eyes constantly darted between Miyana and the towering stalactite. I've heard the tales of her strength. The idea of surpassing her power—even if it was niche—was a little intoxicating.

"Ah, fine," I caved, "Don't say I didn't do this for you, though."

Ozymandias broke from the group to navigate the various electrical consoles. I watched him search around with my back laid against the Realizer's platform. Miyana barely contributed. She stood in place with her undivided attention on me. Suddenly, the ex-priest exclaimed, "Found it!"

His hand hovered over an inconspicuous display. I couldn't see what he found, but I knew it had to be the button which activated the Realizer.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this, Autumn?" Ozymandias continued, "It's not too late to back out now."

Miyana shook her head. "No, it's too late now. Look up and accept your fate. I'll see you on the other side, flower girl!"

Disregarding her sarcastic interjection, I nodded my head in confirmation.

The next few moments hit me in a blur. As I braced for the Realizer's potential, I faintly heard Ozymandias count down from five. Miyana, on the opposite side of my vision, covered her mouth with her hands in glee. The stalactite itself increased in luminosity. The Ambrosian veins overpowered my sight as its low-rumbling hum drowned out the ambient noise around me. The marble's frigid touch gave way for a warm embrace which engulfed my body. I couldn't tell if I was standing up or laying down.

The Realizer didn't sting. It all felt like one giant hug. When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in the same grotto.

[soft-humming-moon]

Lock ᴎ̣̇ Key

Scarlet Mountain

0 - HELL IS TOLERANCE

Beyond the veil lies Scarlet Mountain, obscuring my view of the Eternal Fountain. Oh, the polished rock stubbed by rot, Was it worth for what I fought?

Blood-stained sword among the stone; An empty bazaar for a vacant throne. Dormant in the rubble of sentient past, I wonder if this place will be my last.

Blood-stained tears throughout the years as death draws near to rile my fears. The runes in my dreams brightly glow, “On it goes, on with the show.”

Blood-stained crater upon your face, A butchered start to a failed race. What leyes do I tell myself? In pursuit of fame or wealth?

Blood-stained name, dug through the dirt. Oh how Dorian loved his favorite shirt. Justice cherished his Phrygian cap, as J. Locrian came to a wrap.

Blood-stained eyes, blood-stained hair. Who's to ask if it's all fair. Beyond the veil lies Scarlet Mountain Holding The Knight and the Eternal Fountain.

I - SCARLET MOUNTAIN - PART ONE

May Ninetwentieth, 2023. I can't go a minute without sneezing. All of my friends pack in the dirtied room, taking their own space akin to sardines in a tin. The idea of laying down next to any of them defiled my mind. I don't think I can sleep in the same bed with anyone in the room. 

Hours prior, Pavi invited us all to his house to spend the night. This day was months in the making—my inclusion was a gratuity. We spent the first few hours in silence. Popcorn bowls and cans of Dr. Pepper lined the floor as we all watched Whiplash. Pavi couldn't go five minutes without stating a line of trivia.

Days before, I remember the pain in my neck from looking up towards the balcony within my house. My dad pressed his hands against the railing as he looked down towards me at the bottom. I'd bet it was easier to look down. I talked to him about the sleepover—how long I'd be gone for, who I'd be with, and every detail that was necessary. Jokingly, he asked if using the word sleepover was slang for a gay tryst.

Afterward, me and Scarlet both joked, "Does he know?"

The room was dim. Large speakers mounted upon metal rods softly filled the air with calm music. Pavi always fell asleep listening to a playlist constructed solely of easy-listening songs. It was tradition for him. Everyone has their own ritual for falling asleep, don't they?

I remember mindlessly scrolling through my phone. Being in the room was almost miserable, I couldn't sleep in the chair. My idle hand felt around in the dark and lightly tapped on a small container of truffles. I couldn't resist. My hand lowered itself down to grab a wrapped orb of chocolate.

The truffle stuck to the roof of my mouth and to the floor of my tongue. It was as if my mouth was instantaneously filled with glue. Yet, I enjoyed the texture. It was enough for me to reach once more and unwrap another.

Quietly, I stepped out from the tuna can out to the living room. I brought my blanket—I'd be okay if I slept on the floor. As I idly sat in the reclining chair, I watched Pavi's mom leave her room. Unfortunately, she knew I was awake. A pang of fear radiated from my body, but I kept myself calm through lies. Yes, I just woke up. No, I haven't been up all night.

Sometimes, people lie to themselves. There's always something that helps them sleep at night. As the sun rose up from the horizon, its radiant glow filled the living room with a violet shade. While the room basked in its warm colors, I could see straight through to its core. The worst that could happen at any given day is if the sun never rose again.

As everyone woke up for the day, I remained awake in the house. We all packed in Pavi's car to eat breakfast at a diner he once worked at. I remember how they double charged me. It took a few days to sort that out.

I could only think of two things as Pavi drove me home. Firstly, how much I yearned for sleep. I'd been up for more than twenty-four hours, and I knew how comfortable my own bed would be. There was nothing better in the world than sleeping in your own bed after so long.

While Pavi was still delirious, I took the opportunity to ask him a question that ate away at my insides. Everyone else had fallen asleep—the stars aligned. There, slumped in his own chair, told him what ailed me. I spoke of someone I developed feelings for, how I wanted to at least try and see where it would take me.

His response crumbled to join the sands of time. However, he had seen it all. He was there for the question—half-conscious. He was there to see my arm wrapped around Scarlet's shoulders. And lastly, he was there—inebriated—to entrap me in a tight hug after I had explained it all to him.

Everyone has something that helps them sleep at night.

II - THERE’S A SUMMER OUT THERE …

The red-leather chair slumps to my weight. Sometimes the noise of the instruments fills this room with enough pressure to kill me. I signed up for this. My gaze fixes to the hole in the ceiling—someone came in here to fix it once. Where my friend's standing is where the drummer of another band will sleep in a few months.

I hold the strong belief that the last summer I ever have should be cherished, utmost. Every day I drive home brings me the same present-feeling throughout. I watched my friend switch from psychedelics to vaping. How'd he do that?

I sat in a movie theater for five hours, my rotting mind finally found something new to latch on to. "I'll be back soon, why don't you play Yakuza in the meantime?"

I can't walk past the foyer without thinking of her. One day, I'll move out of this house and feel better. I sat in the back of the band room, crying to myself that it's all over. It should have been those messages I saved all those months ago.

I used to love camping. One day, while my friend was curious, he stuck his hand down my pants and said he loved touching me. Every day, we would sneak off to the bathrooms during break, and he would worm his hands around. Thank fucking god he didn't say "what's this?", am I right?

"You just have to keep moving," he said, "my drunken friends gave stronger hugs than sober handshakes."

And if that leather chair held the both of us, then it was heaven. If that leather chair held me gripping to terms with the situation, then so be it. The floor's better with me present, as the world spins faster without you on my mind.

"THE HATCHET IS BURIED," He boomed, "CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT."

Those two are talking about the impossible chess game again. It's about the mind reader and the man who can tell the future. They're on about it, again. The trip back from Cortez was miserable.

And every time I passed through Dustin, I was on my electric bike. The thrill of the road was in its construction, as every moment I sped through the cracking roads felt like a rollercoaster. There's a speaker in my backpack, blaring whatever I liked at that time. My grandma bought me a blue jacket. I cried more for him than I did at her funeral. 

... and, it's not for you.

III - HOLY GRAIL OF REALITY - PART TWO

The room is empty; I posed a question.

The streets below are vacant. I can hear the soft hums of the other-rooms through the walls, ceilings, and floors alike. I slouched around as I was left alone in my shared living space.

Through the tape recorder resting in my hand, I play out the messages as they come. The delicate film wraps around the canisters inside. It wasn't a guessing game on what I would experience, yet it felt as if I held my breath regardless.

There are people far worse than me, I've come to understand that in this world. On the experienced scale of life, I can simply be rounded to normal. Horrid beasts rest in the depths below a sophisticated, layered society. My achievements have heightened me to an elevated class. No, is that what brought me?

The only reason I'm here today is through the connections, the friends. I fill the niche because of my traits. Eleven tracks play out from the recorder as I sit against the furniture. While these tracks vary largely in release; only does the final passage lay a nail to any continuation.

A knight layered in reek; with their baritone range which weaves smooth words whole. I find myself repeating the tapes in an effort to understand—no. The expunged of the world speaks wholly of me above them. Each repeat only cements this fact; but can I truthfully live such action? A chorus of comparison with rhymes of reassurance. I write not in realization; but of clarity. Living a lie comforts far more than those of truth.

These words sear fresh in my mind. Twenty days have passed since the first retelling; now, not twenty hours have passed. Once more, I take the symbolic-pen in an effort to understand. Not of others, but of myself. The words lay in front of me, etched in waves—I must understand them. I no longer care about Cynthia. Through these eleven messages, I can't help but feel there's a twelfth waiting for me. As the leading tone resolves to the tonic, it's only implied in these contexts.

Tears have escaped past my eyes as I remain in thought. Two remnants of rivers leave a reminding trail, only giving me a glimpse of how I truly feel. Only in the dressing room would I see a dear reflection. Once I step out to the blinding lights, I better hope to Him that these reflective reminders have been cleanly washed from my face. I'm no longer in Acedia.

I am my own guide; have been, and always will be. But now, the knight's revelation highlights a strange path forward. This path is not of their making, no. The evidence I've collected—five files final—reach their true definitions. Now, it makes sense. What's left is to compose my thoughts in the only way I know how.

"Let me tell you, it is painful to be completely silent."

12/11/21

IV - THE HATCHET

My heart was racing. The sweat binds my skin to the cheapest suit found within the concert hall, bridging the gaps left as I had hastily put on the garment minutes prior. My mind focuses less on the unholy fusion of attire and animal and more on the patterns etched on the book in front of me. Latin letters capitalized in junction, with shorthand symbols right after. Everything beyond that was ignored—I only hold three extensions to my two limbs.

As I'm given a rest from my laborious work, there's a moment where I find a minute of respite. Sitting in the room lacking any definition of its color, I find myself laying back in a reclining chair. My mind moved swifter than my heart could ever dream of. In the blur of it all was only one goal—making it out alive. Even with the warped mirror reflecting its infinite wisdom back at me; I didn't care. What was once a daily slog to push the unwanted residue out from my train of thought had been washed out by the sea of the future.

Each moment I walked on stage, all important eyes were on me. Yet, I didn't play to please them. In exaggerated words; they were locked in the room to watch me perform. The minutes blur by as lengths of melodies draw on for thirds of hours. There was no room for any further sweat to worsen my skills, but there was room for error given my telegraphs. In the end, I had pushed my body far past its sickened affliction, with an end product that wholly resonated with my desire.

So then, what happened? What could possibly change in four days? In the span from concert end to the unyielding dismay that leaves me decrepit on my prideless bed.

The lawn remains an unkept mess, with the worn down fence left to keep it. The outside—to the detail you told me of—remains an extension of your own house. All which keeps the house standing is the love and care to its support. The bathroom's door is a curtain; your room's lock is a large box. The basement is a large expanse with no notable attributes beyond its empty nature. I can only picture the layout so vividly, yet the smell remains unmistakably like my own bathroom.

The moon in the sky overhangs in the same spot regardless of position. In three points, it waxes and wanes the same as it rises and sets. I've come to miss how effortlessly a full moon can illuminate my pitch-black room. As the days grow short, I can't help but find the moon on my walks home. Rarely, would I catch it past its third quarter or before its first. I've always had the ability to keep its motions in mind.

The music's loud, now. I'll pass by the world interacting with me as I hide myself deeper in lyrics which lament of my life. After the isolation I found myself in, torching the joy away, it was hard to push it all out. My drunken friends give stronger hugs than sober handshakes. Rooted in our culture amidst the eclectic academia, all in which we signify ourselves with is our handshake.

Punch after punch, there's never been a day lonelier than in my own room. As I sit in your own shadow, all that I can bring myself to do is shuffle my feet forward. I find echoes of my past in the surrounding relationships—my life’s plot points imitate a spectator. I wonder what had gone wrong, and I remember all the fourth-colored flags which tease my sight.

There's a trifecta in my mind which beckons to be complete. Suicide is the ideation of a changed life; whether alive or dead. It remains in the collective culture as a mistake which changes your life for the worse. In my darkest days, I never wish for the end of everything. I know there's a life in which I have built that continues on no matter what I do. Now, I no longer find that fun. I teeter on the thin branch which dictates whether I continue down my paved road or branch off to build my own log cabin.

I'll stand in front of my mirrors and deject my own face. Across the cramped room, sometimes I'll catch glimpses of myself which remind me of which reality I stand in. No matter if they're tinted clear or black, I still find myself in a battle reclaiming who I am from the body which strays far from who I should be.

My chest grows heavy laying the cards on the table. As much as I confront my inner desires there's a person holding me back. It's righteous, it's whole, It's a just voice just outside my body as it affirms the path of normality strays far and wide from what I plan to do. I've always asked myself if I were to reach the summit and stand face to face with the same person I dull my emotions over; if my answer satisfies me. If my answer reunites the longing I've felt if my answer lives up to its definition and answers me. An echo across the mountaintops as a string of words made to solve the riddle chaining my mind backwards which activates the way forward as a renewed self or simply a waterfall splitting to reveal a treasure chest or better yet a friend I lost long ago.

I've feared confronting them for this long. I've heard the unified chorus remind me that simply breaking the connection off with no explanation is the right thing to do. It has all been a mental game, I know it as such. It's not love that I'm after, now. I want answers. I wish to bury a hatchet left with blood rusted off its sharpest point. There's a future which eludes me, where I find the comforts of a fantasy which carries me farther than any media has so far. I want to push beyond the barrier my mind has placed upon myself as it rejects a simple "no". Not even that; it rejects silence. It realizes that the war has been one-sided; and the issues are far too vast to place into meaningful words.

Sure, what good will it do? Months ago, I confessed my love for them without a care in the world. Now, I'm scared to even explain myself. He's a person too, I've kept that all in mind. I should mix both of the worlds together. A severance of communication and a confession to send it all away. You've ruined me; fuck you. Yet, that's not true. I've ruined myself; fuck me.

You've never loved me, you've cheated on your boyfriend to deliver the news you never had. This is the hatchet; and the only person who cares is me.

I did it; I knew it. Let my kingdom fall around me. My lies. My mind's leyes.

V - WAITING ROOM

Black. A room devoid of color or detail. Wherever my hand touched was what gained itself purpose. Pre-Apotheosis. Except, none of it was real. I can't help but feel guilty for forgetting what happened here.

Broken pillars with shriveled slime. Splotches lighting the blackened ground. I used to be something. I threw my orange mask away somewhere in the empty void months ago. We locked eyes immediately after. Now, I'm trapped.

A careless flick of my wrist caused the hungering void to swallow upon a chunk of pillars, removing them from sight. Hell is empty; the number one. At the top of the mountain, you are alone with yourself. You will fight with your hands in a bloody war against your might.

I think I'm stuck here. My mind wanders and my feet move forward, but no matter how far I move, I will always remain in the void. Even as I mop the floors and sweep the debris; I leave myself with nothing.

The presence of the overhanging moon keeps me sane, I believe. It has cycled ten times since I have been trapped here. Waiting. What for?

He walks out with his suit covered in blood, heaving as his chest restricts his heart from beating out his clothes. The barrel of his gun smokes with guilt—he's never claimed a life before.

"It's for the betterment of my friend," he reminds himself, "She's a monster. She took my friends away from me."

That's not what he said; of course. I sat from afar as I conjured scenes of imaginative origins. They're still me. I can never see what he truly says. I don't want to know. It's been months. I want to go home.

I can't bring myself to imagine greater scenes. The doll houses I built from the ground up are nothing in comparison to my problems. Where's the joy in it all? It's only myself here.

A war in my name. They'll talk about me for years to come. I'm only an incident—a means to bring them back together. No, of course not. Since when has hatred meaningfully built a community?

Pillar, return to me. Fall under the might of my kick. Crumble to ash as I concentrate my foot. Of course, you leave a mess in my wake. Everything does; everything is a mess.

I hope the ax forgets. The tree will forever keep its scar, but the wood-handled ax will continue as if nothing has happened. The scar of void.

Am I fighting myself? I am.

I heard what I needed to hear.

Remember when he returned last time? It only wound up worse. It was a trap.

Who's holding the hatchet? I thought I buried it.

I don't remember where. It's somewhere in the void.

Pairs of two. Shrines of thirteen.

I'm alone again. Delusional and hopeless.

I'm alone again. Delusional and hopeless.

I'm alone again.

Delusional.

And Hopeless.

Ṿİ - DREAMCATCHER

July 2014. Approximately one thousand eight hundred forty days before the start. My gaze fixed to the symbol etched upon my bunk mate's wall. The symbol placed me within a curious trance which slipped away the misery of sleeping in the wilderness, nearly five hundred miles away from my own house.

My bunk mate had a pair of striped pajamas covering his being. Ragged blonde hair stretches down and past his shoulders. With my outstretched hand, I point to the symbol and loudly exclaim for the rest of the cabin to hear, "What's that?"

His attention shifts from the rapid conversation towards the etched symbol. A backwards N slants within the wooden frame as two dots cap the top and bottom of the diagonal slash. For a moment, he looks on to the symbol to prolong the time before he speaks.

"It's the Dreamcatcher," he spoke with a lisp, "It filters the nightmares when you fall asleep. A one way ticket granting you smooth sailing across the sea of dreams."

I was perplexed. His words—at the time—slipped away as his intelligent dialect precedes his age. Of course, I knew nothing of it then. As the years continued by, meshing together in fragmentations of both memory and fantasy, I found myself staring face to face with the symbol again. And again.

And again.

April 13th, 2024. One thousand seven hundred fifteen days after the start. A patchwork of symbolism weaves within my mind as my slumbering body plays within its tales. Stories of bygone characters dance around the vignette-tinted playground. My senses fall flat as I fail to recall the very faces staring me down. On their seraphic heads is a detail which clings upon my senseless sight.

Two men stand out among the sea of visitors. Both identities bore scraggly hair which puffed itself into a sphere. The man on the left stood with dark-brown hair, while the other bore a lighter, yet dirtier blond-haired person. It wasn't them, I've never found myself dreaming of their exact features. Yet, it was. A simulacrum of my fears amalgamated in my distant peers.

The dream swiftly plucked itself away from my vision as a searing pain overtook my stomach. Every minute felt like misery—all I wished for was my water to quench my shriveled throat. My light-blue bottle sat farther away than I can reach. I freely kicked my legs at the edge of my bed as my body laid wide awake. Each moment strung on for hours—please, let me move.

My constant pleas pushed against my desires as I silently begged for freedom. Slowly, I disturbed my keeling pose and gripped against my bottle. Intuition informed me of how I yearned for water, but only for its feeling. As the small dribble sat within my mouth, I could feel my aching stomach return back to nothing.

4:50 AM. I sat at the foot of my bed with my eyes fixed on the light illuminated from my window. Dawn barely cracked upon my room as only a glimmer of blue sat above the horizon. The driveway remained black—empty of any unusual cars. Above all, I was expecting the same black truck to present an awaited visitor. Nothing, of course. The days are blurring together.

Before I returned to the senseless sea, I found a familiar symbol dimmed upon my blackened wall. The Dreamcatcher. The same reverse N with its unusual tittles. Nearly ten long years, and I found myself face to face with the unknown. Even as I returned to select a video to sleep to, I saw him at the top of my feed. Same man, same festival, same guitar, same channel. Wretched beast. Horrid switch.

"It's a redo," I muttered to myself. 8:20 AM. "Today is a better day because I allow it to be."

I didn't sleep in, this time. Yet, my mind was racing. Amidst my morning routine, I pondered on the meaning of the Dreamcatcher. Was it there to taunt me? Remind me? It appears in fantastical coincidence; what dream does it catch? Fate? Love? War? Was the kid wearing a sleeping cap or a Phrygian cap?

  10:30 AM. A wave of noise washed within the walls of the garage as I fixated on the same symbol hung on the load-bearing beam. Maybe there was nothing to it. A litany of artifacts and plaques lined the walls of the garage, displaying the very childhood of a life I've never lived. The Dreamcatcher was part of a collective in which I held no intention of deciphering. "The Snicker Award", "The Rattlesnake Award". These weren't mine, so why should it matter?

My mind focused on the important issues ahead. My hands swung in front of me to hit the bars of an instrument too small for me. I was having fun. The drummer gave us orders while his hand snaked around the shoulders of his lover—a visitor. Both of them sat on top of the chair as I've seen before. Oh, the observer. To think, I may be the man in the midnight campground.

My friend—visiting from towns away—talked to us about his busy life. As we drove through Main Street, he told us of his rountined day. His early mornings, arduous afternoons, and meaningless evenings. In his sixteen-hour shifts, he found no time to socialize or hang out. Loneliness was what he ran from. Every hour of his life was occupied to better his life, to escape the realization of where he sat in the sea of it all.

The pianist—who I confide with my deepest secrets—listens with curiosity as he prods the visitor's life with questions that push the conversation along. Past the theater and approaching the drive-thru, he silences the air with a single inquiry, "Will your life change if you find a lover?"

"If," the visitor emphasizes, "I have no time or need for one."

There it is, graffitied on the road sign ahead. The Dreamcatcher. Sprayed in pure white is the work of a symbol which strikes meaning upon my soul. I can imagine the summer heat outside the car, where I stood amazed instead of aiding my bandmates. That was a distant time, of course. Ten minutes out there was a tenth of a second in the visitor's truck.

3:05 PM. One song in our set and I was already lost in the structure. The intricacies of the form and the style of the solos. Soon, my eyes glazed upon the digital eyes circling the gazebo like vultures. It struck me well—in that moment—my own likeness would appear outside where I could fathom its existence. Uncountable posts mentioning me by group and not by name. The feeling was alien. Before, only one set of eyes focused on my being. And even then, their eyes hid underneath a bandmate's phone.

A familiar woman bestowed upon our band a coupon and a singular $100 bill each. As I looked down at her aged face, her complexities could only spark so much. It was a long shot, however, I could only identify the woman as the same observer who handed me a rainbow-themed pin with the words "MOM HUG" in bubble letters.

Now, it was different. Handed to me was a slip of paper—a coupon—for a local restaurant. Inscribed in ink, beneath the printed words, was the same Dreamcatcher symbol etched on the slip. Of course, I left to claim the coupon whenever possible. The reappearance of this symbol continued to surprise me, it almost appeared at random.

4:50 PM. Our performance has long ended. Recent memories of familiar bonding danced in my mind as I sat in the sanctuary of the restaurant. The recurrence of the Dreamcatcher enamored me, its occupancy in my mind taunted me like a distant memory. My words quickly join the dancing thoughts, "It's a redo."

The answer overwhelms my expressions in a state of pure realization. My friends slightly eye me before I return to my neutral expression. I couldn't tell if they knew what I was thinking, but their conversation continued on to prove my hypothesis correct.

"It's best to let the reader figure out the meaning." The words of my English teacher push through my conspiring thoughts. Oh, Orphanmaker. "Let them find your meaning or let them find their own."

6:30 PM. My friends and I met at a granite table with a checkered pattern inscribed in the stone. As their conversation continued on about the future of the band, my eyes idled around the surrounding area as I scanned the crowd. In comparison to the previous three hours, the park found itself crowded with people from end to end. They were here for the main course of the festival; of course. Their set list remained identical, but their members had changed.

Soon, my focus sat on the edge of the park. A wall of graffiti—more eloquently a mural—stretched from edge to edge as it covered the barren wall of a tan building in a colorful display. Most jarring of all was the Dreamcatcher, which blended in well to the mural. Why now?

"Who would win a game of chess?" The words of the pianist recall from my parallel memory. "Someone who can see the future or a mind reader?"

I fell asleep during that conversation. I heard it come on amidst a sea of one-sided discussion. Already, exhaustion had taken hold of my body that day as I fell asleep on the floor with nothing but my clothes. Oh, how the world rhymes.

Two kids—adorned with orange tails and animal ears—danced around the dormant fountain's design as they chased each other. I couldn't help myself but to watch the two run along the open space. This place was packed, I thought, how could they find the time? The Dreamcatcher—formed in the cracks and holes of the fountain—allowed such ritual.

9:20 PM. Anger overwhelmed my senses as I placed myself in an unwilling location. Never until now have I walked within the interior of a pub, and never have I performed among the same men which paved the path I walked. My rage flung itself from fear; control. Everything I yearned for needed to be right. Why wasn't it? My friends only added fuel to the fire. They spoke with confidence on an instrument they seldom knew, "It's right because I said it's right."

After I had situated my vibraphone atop the stage, all I could feel was sorrow. My rage-induced high mellowed out to the pits of regret as I recalled the words I used against them. I apologized—profusely. As I idly drank my cup of water, I recognized the song performed was off the album Headhunters; Watermelon Man. As soon as their performance concluded, our band picked up the torch with another song off the same album; Chameleon.

Even as I played, I could feel the presence of the Dreamcatcher. The warmth of the melodies. The embrace of the solos. My mallets sailed and struck against the vibraphone with precision and delicacy. Despite the ferocity and the passion, it felt calm. In the eye of the arpeggiated storm was a hug of passion and idled entropy.

"I worked for this," I assured myself across festivals, "I earned it."

The songs blurred by, as if I was asleep for it all. Stress eluded me as my mistakes sifted away through the crucible of passion. All good things must come to an end. Of course, I knew this adage well. 11 PM flashed by and signaled an end to it all.

Where was the Dreamcatcher? Two hours came and went as the paralleled rest. While I deconstructed my vibraphone to its transportable pieces, I tuned in to the overlapping wisdom bestowed upon our band by two varied sources. I took in what I could as I packed my mallets back into the crowded bag where it belonged.

Only as I slipped the two sticks inside did the Dreamcatcher reveal itself. Claimed in marker, the wooden handles held the very symbol I searched for. I've owned these mallets for so long—I thought—why did I only notice now? It slipped by my senses for an unknown amount of time.

How long have I carried the Dreamcatcher under my unknowing hands?

"Do you still love someone after the relationship's over?" My friend questioned. He focused on the midnight road ahead as the conversation pivoted to his question. "Even if it's not the same, is the love still there?"

  April 12th, 2024. One thousand seven hundred fourteen days after the start. The question wedged itself within my thoughts as I listened on to the conversation. We were only a few minutes away from the gas station, after I'd caught up in explaining my worst affairs with my greatest friend—the pianist. It felt wrong, worded fluffing padded my mouth as each word felt meaningless yet hurtful at the same time.

Regardless, the driver continued in a seamless thought, "I mean, I still love my girlfriend. There's nothing that can replace how I feel for her. But, out in the distance, I still feel something towards everyone else I dated before me—my exes."

"Well, yeah." The pianist placed his foot in the door of conversation, "But what about familial love? Platonic? Do you still love your mother while she's alive? Do you suddenly hate her when she's dead?"

Of course, you do. What good is it when you break the bonds you crafted with others?

"I can't speak on behalf of what romantic love feels like," he continues, "But it's weird when you no longer love someone after you stop talking to them. What about the memories? The time you spent together?"

Yes, but granted, something terrible must happen in order for that event to even occur.

Out of the blue—by a leap in conversation or time—the driver continues with a new question, "When was the last time you said I love you?"

Not since July.

In reaction, I spoke my thoughts out loud. I could see the pianist look towards me with a knowing, sympathetic, expression. Similar to the revelation at the restaurant, all he could do is acknowledge my reaction and continue on.

The duo's words blur together as I preoccupied my mind with my own response. The phrase was sacred to me, it feels like I've reserved it for people who I can no longer say it to. It's a privilege to receive my love. No, it's a privilege to receive their love. How do you read the Dreamcatcher, if at all?

How many Leyes can you tell yourself before it all catches up to you?

VII - KING OPALIA - PART THREE

"It was like I was shifting through realities," he continued, "Every time I passed out, it was like I was in another universe. Something else had changed and I had to figure out what."

In the small hours of the sleepover, there were only two people awake in the house. I slumped in one of the two reclining chairs in the living room as I processed the last few hours of my life.

I remember the fort I constructed in Pavi's kitchen. Oh, I didn't like his dogs. One of them barked incessantly, why won't you stop? Is it because I won't let you in my home away from home? Why does something smaller than my backpack of tricks hold more energy than any waking person in the house?

Then came a crash. It was like a guardian angel fell from heaven to save me from the microbeast. I took what I could in the moment and laid down on the floor. I should've been concerned then and there. The final party animal had fallen into slumber. I heard his singing stop for just a few moments before he continued on. 

A second crash soon followed after. Silence cemented itself in the house as I left to check on my friend. Nested between the piano and the bed was the party animal. 

I spent the next few hours worriedly making sure my friend was fine. I cared little about how I felt in the moment. I'd willingly sacrifice anything of mine to make sure I wasn't around to witness another death in my life.

Through his brief waking moments, I led the party animal on the bed; away from the unforgiving floor. I took the piano apart in his wake to make sure I could lift his dead weight.

Every now and again, he would wake up and rush towards me; scared. The party animal would wrap his hands around my body, passing out on my chest with his acne blood staining my favorite shirt.

Of course, it was July.

I laid on the bed both motionless and confused. Part of me wanted to enjoy the moment, but most of me was as scared of him as he was of himself. 

The party animal continued to wake up time and time again. Eventually, he remained awake with a strange fixation on my face. I couldn't look him in the eyes. As he continued to sober up, his motor skills increased alongside his lucidity.

At first, he'd speak coherent sentences. From there, he'd express an urge to find his phone. This sole desire chewed up the next two hours. I wish I could've checked the floor where he passed out on.

With the help of the hung over partygoers, we were able to return the party animal back to his house. However, I spent the last few minutes talking to him.

We sat behind the rising sun; an orange reminder. I recounted the last few hours to him over and over again.

One moment that stuck out was his intimacy. For a while, he moved his hands over to my chest and groped at my nipples. I was mortified for a moment, until I silently spoke to myself, "This is karma."

As he left, I knew the end of the sleepover was fast approaching. In my final moments awake, I spent the time recalling the memories in between. I briefly chuckled. Of course, the last year has been eventful. Despite my flawed memories, I found solace in my stories.

One day, I'll confront my feelings in Scarlet Mountain's crater.

The Knight

VIII - BEHIND YOUR BACKS

We sat around the campfire telling ghost stories of living people. In mutual agreements, we knew the best people to trust were ourselves. We have all fled from the burning pits of Hell in an attempt to carve our own identities in our presences. The struggles we face now are known as struggles from our experiences. We all agreed in vitriol.

There was an importance in community; in grouping. The world is rough, but we are social. I placed my best foot forward in accepting friendship. The experiences shared gave us hope to move forward. We are changed men. From then and even now, we hold common enemies.

I watched as the group tore itself asunder. I grew bitter of one man, who entitled themselves to falsified attention. With a heavy break, I no longer associated my trust with him. Another grew nosy of my business. In my private life, he proclaimed himself as the righteous spectator due to its affairs. No longer do I talk to him. Like the previous man, he had rarely changed.

From the sidelines, I saw his ship sink beneath the ocean line. The men he tormented for his benefit, healing in consequence of removal. It was bittersweet, but it wasn't my business. It all made sense. Alongside, I had made amends with the common enemies. After all, they were disproportionate. They were all friends, and I surrounded myself in the wrong group.

I suppose we all lied that day, when we told ghost stories of living people.

IX - THE SHIRT

My shirt was stained with blood, recently. The vibrant colors I once saw in it now drowned in putrid red. I look at it and remember a harsh flashback to how the blood appeared. Yet it stuns me; why? I've grown fond of the shirt, it was my favorite. All my friends knew of it, the shirt was a staple of who I was. Its notoriety was high. Some even said I never wore anything else. Now, it's gone. How do I explain this? I sit in the car with my friend, giving high claims that he's not drunk. He rambles on about his misfortunes in life. He implored me to speak of mine. I spoke of my woes; my blood stained shirt. When we both left the car, all he gave me was a tight hug. And I couldn't help myself but cry on his shoulder.

I sat in a call with my friends, they spoke of a server. We wanted to play together, but they both had a question. What happened to my shirt? They could easily tell something was amiss, they were smart enough to put the pieces together. It was hard to explain what had happened. Never had I spoken so coherently through tears.

The blood stains my dorm. I didn't wash it properly. Like blankey, I remember when I carried that light blue cloth around. Sometimes I can't help but think of the shirt. The stains are everywhere. It's hard to wash all these stains out. Why was there so much blood?

While practicing, one of my friends checked up on me. They were considerate—I've talked to them before. This time, they asked if I was okay. I'm still not sure if they saw the stains. I stammered, my thoughts flooding with the shirt. I couldn't stand any longer. Feebly, I excused myself to the bathroom. Very few know the extent. When I explain that my once favorite shirt was stained with blood, I never say the degree of it. It soaked the fabrics, ruined the material. I can't quantify it. It's an amount so dear to my heart. Not even my roommate knows. And I, too, watched his favorite shirt stain with blood. I wash, and I wash, and I wash. No amount of help. No amount of agents. It's still there. I've ignored the shirt. It hangs in my closet. I can only choke back tears when I see its faded colors. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

X - THE KNIGHT

On the docks of the ocean, illuminated by the light of the moon, lay a knight with a visor over their eyes. Their gaze stays fixed, as if they were guarding something of value. Minutes passed, and the only twitch the guard made was of their own breathing.

Each day, like clockwork, the paper-crowned kid rushed up to the knight to show them images on a canvas. Every day, without fail, they returned at the same time under the moon's light. Each time the kid presented his colorful canvas, the knight lowered their head for only a moment. Afterward, the knight assumed their regular position. The kid gleefully ran away.

He knew; the knight was capable of speech. The knight could speak, could move, could show signs of life beyond simple breathing. The kid knew nothing of the knight's past beyond their accomplishments. The kid saw something within the knight.

"I want to make the knight proud!" The kid exclaimed, "I want to see the knight smile!"

Night by night, the kid visited the knight. Their status quo was maintained; visor over their eyes, scarf obscuring mouth. The knight was emotionless. He only took action to diffuse the chaos. It mattered not that the kid's canvas grew grander, grew more complex by the day. To the kid, it mattered most that the knight had seen the canvas. 

Months passed. Years washed and spun the world around its axis. The kid, now at the same height as the knight, rarely visited. What once was a beloved pastime waned. Now, it was only a passing thought. The kid, once more, showed the knight a canvas. He plainly brought it up to their sight. With time, the kid grew wiser. The kid knew more than he had before. And this time, something had stood out.

As the knight observed the canvas, the kid saw their cheeks rise. Despite the scarf covering their mouth, the knight shared an expression. Through every canvas, every day. Was the kid so small? Was this only a detail he could see with his mature height?

It didn't matter. The kid's goal was complete, but that never snuffed the flame of tradition.

XI - THE KNIGHT’S EFFECT

On the very docks where I find inspiration, oh, it's beyond repair. The men who swear to keep its good name allow the waves to erode its material. Salted waters akin to their needs— same as a knife to its back— It's slow. Find yourself at the crossroads of nostalgia and contempt. The speckled stars, they tell you to look up and observe their beauty. How full the moon is; how often is such? With cold metal housing microwar. Look up, they tell you. "Remember where you came from, but do not look back" I tell them. Oh how the stars seldom care to the blastcrumble's effect.

12 - FOUR TIMES THREE

Three hundred days; do you believe it's right to keep track of insignificant matters? As the parking lot's stars mimic a starlit sky among crimson red clouds, does it matter to care how they look? Do the stars feel as if they cast judgment on you? In past, present, and future; they look down on you. With their heightened position in the sky, all stars have blackened spots. 

How invasive is it to view a virtual feud? As you watch as a flippant man rages about matters beyond his concern, do you then see the assailant's "close friend" lighten up. Your eyes glance across the screen to see if they still stand. You count the days until it all returns to the status quo.

I rarely see you in my dreams. Every night, my shift starts as visages of haunting figures dot my dreams. The repressed guilts of the waking world roam free as they remind me of my insignificance. With each dream, they pass through in a blur of consciousness. A rendition of the virtual wars; the arguments about the snake pit. Studying me as if it was academic; Danilism. Muted colors weave together a story lost in a foreign language in which its effect carries beyond understanding.

I fear some reprieve of finality. Icarus; those who know me too well fall out of grace. Of course, those fears always dance in front of my face. These shadows which obstruct the bleeding light are nothing of its true form. I was given poison all my life, promised it was ambrosia.

However, I don't fear the creator of such tale. Tell me ad nauseam of the one who rests once you fully forget your cherished teddy bear. These comparisons strike fear into my heart, but there's only one resolution which keeps the fears at bay. I can continue on, explaining egotistical anecdotes, yet how fun is that? In moderation lies the key.

I don't need fourteen tales to explain my silent gratitude, Thank you.

Eternal Fountain

XV - SHIFTING REALITIES

Hail Opalia, king of the snow! Character martyr; how little they know. You've changed much, all post-mortem. Such a shame! Goodbye gem.

Hail Opalia, the tragic tale! Such a story, never stale! Meek ambassador of the few, there's no one quite like you.

Why, Opalia, the herald of justice, with your discovery of the Fountain Eternal. The men, they speak in malice! Alas, we find you dead in vernal.

J. Opalia, the innocent king. We would never plan a thing! As your coffin sits opened; empty. May they find you, bounty hefty!

XVI - THE TRUTH

Heaven is a place distant Encroached by the virtuous souls Less are they divine as Lenient is the overrule

Ichor pours golden washing its Spill of mortal ambrosia upon us.

Tasked against the sins defined Oh, is life an arduous test? Living by the rules bestowed above, “Eternal will be your reward!” Raise your voice against your masters And feel His wrath. No life worth living, Clean of question. Entertain the notion that

XVII - SLEEPLESS NIGHTS

I never noticed how empty the sky was. Seven long months since I lost the most important battle of my life. You forget about all of the little details at your lowest. I was sure this prison had some sort of nightly simulacrum.

Who cares about the stars, anyway? When you spend most of your days chopping away at a training doll, knowing how many faint dots dance around the moonlight is the least of your concerns. We're one misstep away from losing everything we own, they say.

I pray every night they're wrong.

I spy on my friends every other night. They seem to have so much fun every time I check on them, what gives? Don't they know what's at stake—what I lost? It's me or them. Eat or be eaten. I'm the one wearing the uniform. They're the sheep.

They'll make these training dummies out of anything. Every other night I'll cleave through the burlap sack and spill all of its cotton guts on the floor. My teammates constantly tell me to loosen up—what do they know? I'll keep swinging until my blisters gain blisters.

There's no such thing as fun in war. Kaigako taught me that. I've never felt a moment of peace ever since I was trapped in this prison. She put me in here. Any day wasted on these hooligans is another victory for her.

One day I met a girl at the base of the mountain. She was full of life. I've never seen someone's smile stretch so wide. There must be something wrong with her. She's got the same deep-red eyes as she does hair. Isn't pink just a lighter red?

She introduced herself as the Scorched Sultan. I saw no need to introduce myself, everyone already knew my name.

The sultan found a fascination with the Demonic War. When I recalled my days deep in the woods hunting for those demons, she paid attention with sparkles in her eyes.

I saw something in her. If she stuck around the same circles as me, maybe she wouldn't be too bad of an asset. I'm sure Kaigako wouldn't mind.

Unfortunately, she was unbearable. The sultan held a constant air of insecurity. When I offered to duel her, she took it up without question. We went through so many hoops to compromise on a set of rules. Eventually, I grew impatient. At this rate we'd see the sun rise before any of our blades.

What separated her from everyone else was her style. She was endlessly persistent and optimistic, yet that's what dragged her down. The joy she showed at the idea of bloodshed irked me. I'm sure she wouldn't flinch at the sight of civilian brutality. As long as she wasn't on the other end receiving hell.

Her technique was exemplary, as well. Out of the soldiers I trained with, I never met someone as capable as her. Her innate skill to transform magic to reality wasn't something to scoff at. From a simple flick of her blade, she was able to tear apart at the mountain's material.

Of course, I could do the same. This wasn't anything out of the ordinary. However, the sultan was far more uncontrolled; feral. There came a point within the fight to where I wasn't fighting her anymore. I was fighting her emotions.

I defended my life from her. With the blade's every clash, I pushed my weight into my weapon to fend her away from myself. Rocks hailed down from the mountains above as each strike shook the base of it all.

The sultan soon held me against the ground by the blade. Driven by her tears, she reeled her arm back to initiate another swing. The arena had since been marked with a large crater. I'm not sure if I'd be able to crawl out of it without help.

But I sure wasn't gonna die in it.

Swing after swing, I pushed all of my energy out from my body in a final attack. My blade tore through the sultan's skin swing by swing. Blood quickly escaped out from her wounds as I repeatedly tore her body apart.

By the time I drove my blade into her skull, her body was nigh unrecognizable. All of her clothes were stained under a thin layer of blood and viscera. I didn't care about my blade, I didn't need it. Even as she stopped moving, I sunk every punch and blow into her corpse. I made sure there was nothing of her left.

Once I was satisfied, I pulled my sword out from her head as my foot cracked at her cranium in tandem.

There was a lot I saw in her. A lot of qualities no one ever really saw in myself. I should've let her kill me, but I had a lot more unfinished business than her.

The sultan's murder never affected anyone except for those outsiders. We grabbed a few drinks and brought them back to the estate. Kaigako didn't say anything about the incident beyond a satiric scolding.

We're still the good guys.

XVIII - CLIMAX

SCARLET MOUNTAIN, BLOODIED CRATER. EMPTY FOUNTAIN, VIOLENT HATER. STIFFENED SHOULDERS, REPEAT DREAMER. MENTAL BOULDERS, VIOLENT TRUTHER.

XIX - ELEVEN TAPES

The road ahead had been paved for us. Someone was here long before.

There's been deliberate care in marking the trail ahead. Lanes of wildlife line the edges of the pathway. An occasional leaf deviated from these lanes, as a few scattered themselves along the path.

It didn't matter to the horses how battered the path was. They knew exactly where to walk, and I only needed to supervise from the comfort of my carriage.

Inside the wagon were a few supplies tucked away in various crates. Sat atop those crates were two of my companions. I'm not sure how long they've been here for. One of them—the poet—had her jacket wrapped around her waist. She had large, round glasses which magnified her golden eyes.

In contrast to the poet, the man sitting next to her wore garments and trinkets fit for a king. Every once in a while, he would adjust the crown nested in his dirtied hair before returning his hands in a cross. We call him King Dorian.

Not a moment on this carriage was met with silence. We'd talk about anything and everything. Occasionally, the poet would recite one of her stanzas while we gave our opinions.

Suddenly, King Dorian lifted his head up and spoke, "Do you two have any deep regrets?"

I was stunned. It took me a moment to fully process the question. Before I could think of my answer, the poet had already started in stanza.

"There's very little that I greatly regret," she answers, "Yet, I can list off the memories I want to forget."

King Dorian lifted up a hand, as if he was about to speak. Then, as subtly as he raised it, his hand fell back in his lap.

I kept my eyes focused on the road ahead. I saw no need to make any eye contact with my response. "I'd be inclined to answer the same, but I'm sure me and Dorian share a similar regret."

"Similar regret?" he questioned, "I have a million regrets. They crush me to sleep every night. I'm not sure if you'd share every last one."

"No—of course not. Do you know why they call this place Scarlet Mountain?"

"I haven't cared to learn. Why, is it your regret?"

"Not exactly. I find the story a little comforting."

For the brief moment I spent to check on him, I saw the king hunched forward in attention.

"I'm sure you were alive during this time, but this place used to be called Astrea Mountain. Home to the prettiest constellations underneath the Dreamer's blade. That all changed after a friendly spar turned bloody. Long after the dust settled—weeks after—everyone reported the bloodstains retained their colors. The corpse of the sultan never truly decomposed."

"So they named the mountain after her, Scarlet?"

"Depends on who you ask. It's either a coincidence she was named Scarlet or it was in memorandum."

Silence took hold of the cart. Moments passed, and neither of the two uttered a word.

"We all fuck up in the heat of passion, Dorian. We forget ourselves in the pursuit of happiness. I lost sight of you two the day I discovered my biggest regret. I cultivated them without a care. I treated them with two of the greenest thumbs God can grace us with. The harvest was spectacular. It was as if I was popping a zit. It was messy, but it was satisfying."

"I understand, unfortunately."

"You remember those three nights; I hear you talk about them ad nauseam. In your own words, 'it was as if nothing happened', right?"

I look back to see the king with his head hung low.

"I'm sure that's your biggest regret. It's as much yours as it is mine. It might as well be hers, too. She's too scared to admit it."

The trotting horses drowned out any of the subtle scenery. I couldn't focus on anything else other than the two's combined rhythm.

"There's a reason we're visiting the Eternal Fountain. If the Knight's map is correct, we should be there in less than half an hour."

"I've always wondered about the fountain." I heard the poet speak, but I didn't check behind to see. "Did it spell Opalia's demise, for certain?"

"He died weeks after discovering the fountain. Either it's completely unrelated, or something in the fountain caused it."

"Was that his wish? To have his life mangled on a silver dish?"

"I don't think anyone would willingly wish to become the plane's most hated king. More likely, whatever he wished for came at a price."

"Such a shame! What a way to lose your fame."

Sometimes I can't stand her rhymes. It was obviously Dorian's doing to distinctly separate us. I'm sure either of them could drop the act at any moment.

Soon, King Dorian and the poet talked amongst themselves while I steered the carriage through tricky terrain. Once the horses stepped past the rickety wooden bridge and the paste-smeared rocks, I released the reigns and kept my focus on the landmarks ahead.

It's all or nothing. Aixi vixi.

XX - KING JAMES DORIAN

Sat by the fountain at the heart of our woes. We chased Her myths and escaped our foes. All our coins head-side up. Justice Phrygian and his cap on tails. One last wish among us three, history's victors, Dorian prevails.

I sat at the lip of the fountain. Both the poet and Dorian walked around the emptied fountain with their left hands tightly shut around their coins. We've all reached the Eternal Fountain, but its crystal waters weren't present.

In its place was a viscous pool of blood. Scarlet icicles hung from the upper layers of the fountain's architecture. All of its waters were stagnant, and yet we saw it as clear as day.

Among the fountain's pool was a singular coin, bearing the face of Justice Phrygian.

"Have you heard of why the Three Kings were anointed?" Dorian continued to pace around with his hands behind his back. "I'm sure you know we're all trapped in the blade of the Dreamer, right?"

"I'm aware," I responded, "I have no clue on the inner workings. Weren't you three chosen by the Dreamer to fulfill Her wishes?"

"Not exactly. We were the three dumbest kids She could trust to keep this place in perpetuity."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Before the Crimson Blades freed the souls out of this blade, we three were given the choice to stay with the benefit of a third of Her power. Of course, she scoped us out beforehand. We were all dumb enough to agree."

I kept myself quiet. If anything, my focus was on the entombed coin.

"Phrygian won't budge from this place. I feel his presence constantly weighing down on me. I can only assume Locrian went insane. Look where his wish got him."

Only now could I distinguish what could only be Locrian's femur at the bottom of the pool.

"I'm sick of this feud, 'Nilo. We all lost when we agreed to Her deal. She knew this would happen. I just want to move on in any way I can."

An eye for an eye, blood measured in exact revenge. What's hell except for tolerance? Abyssal flames lick upon your skin at room temperature, This is all you know. No muscle to move within the chains of complacency. How's the cage from the inside? You forge your prison in disguise of love. And yet, you must bear to break your own craft.

The poet threw her coin first. With a mighty flip, the token landed cap up within the scarlet pool. Her coin, however, remained buoyant. 

Minutes passed with no change in sight. We both looked on to her in confusion. Did she even make a wish?

Dorian kept a tight fist around his coin. I waited for his stature to budge, yet he continued to nudge me onward. Hesitantly, I sat up from the lip of the fountain and rested part of the coin on the knuckle of my thumb.

With a weak flip, I quickly opened my hand and caught the coin mid-air. Instead of a flip, I threw my coin in the fountain with as much force as I could muster. The coin slammed against the surface of the pool. Phrygian's tired face looked back at me in disappointment.

It never sank. Just like the poet's attempt, my coin was met with resistance. I was confused. If anything, I wanted to break apart the fountain's architecture with my bare hands. I'm sure Dorian could see my anger steaming from my ears.

I was confused. I wanted answers. Through gritted teeth, I questioned Dorian, "How did Locrian's coin pierce through the water?"

"I'm not sure," he responded, "Do you remember on the ride up here how you mentioned Locrian's death was weeks after he discovered the fountain?"

"Vaguely, why?"

"How long do you think he waited to throw in the coin? Why did he wait? He was sitting on the holy grail of reality. Was he mad at the Dreamer?"

"Were you?"

King Dorian kept his gaze toward the scarlet fountain.

"If I had the opportunity to wish for anything I wanted, I'd take as much time as I need. We both knew how tempered he was."

Monkey's paw and genie lamps. Everyone wishes for infinite wishes. The malice of the world sits in the hearts of the humans. Normality is everything that everyone misses. Faced with the crux of the blade, Opalia kept his emotions red. After weeks of contemplations, he simply wished for Dorian dead.

"We can't say for certain," the king continued, "but I'm sure his wish was granted. We just don't know how it works, or if it's truly what we think it is."

In the background, the poet silently packed up her supplies as Dorian talked. I watched her fill her bag full of writing utensils and sigils by the edge of the fountain.

Eventually, I looked away from the fountain to fully face King Dorian. I've never noticed the complexities of his face. When'd he gain an eyepatch over his right eye? Regardless, I continued with my train of thought and reiterated my question, "are you mad at the Dreamer?"

"No," he bluntly replied, "of course not. It's not Her fault I'm in this mess. I should've known better. Wrong place, wrong time."

"I see, then. Do you truly think Phrygian ever loved you?"

“Of course he did. That was one of the hardest truths I’ve come to accept. Fantasy’s often easier to believe than reality. You should know that well.”

“So you’re fond of the memories you had with him?”

“Yes. Why waste good memories?”

Etched in the shaft of the fountain was a familiar symbol. A reversed N with two dots sat above a smaller plaque, simply reading, "TO THE DREAMCATCHER".

Amidst my observations, I watched King Dorian's coin quickly fly past my vision. The token sunk through the scarlet's pudding, cap side up.

"I can only fix my mistake one way," he concluded, "and that's to move on."

Scarlet Mountain. Eternal Fountain. Dreamer's mission. Catcher's passion.

Violent battle. Blackened kettle. It's time to move on, now. For you, yourself, and thou.

[soft-humming-moon]

THE DREAMCATCHER

July 2014. Approximately one thousand eight hundred forty days before the start. My gaze fixed to the symbol etched upon my bunk mate's wall. The symbol placed me within a curious trance which slipped away the misery of sleeping in the wilderness, nearly five hundred miles away from my own house.

My bunk mate had a pair of striped pajamas covering his being. Ragged blonde hair stretches down and past his shoulders. With my outstretched hand, I point to the symbol and loudly exclaim for the rest of the cabin to hear, "What's that?"

His attention shifts from the rapid conversation towards the etched symbol. A backwards N slants within the wooden frame as two dots cap the top and bottom of the diagonal slash. For a moment, he looks on to the symbol to prolong the time before he speaks.

"It's the Dreamcatcher," he spoke with a lisp, "It filters the nightmares when you fall asleep. A one way ticket granting you smooth sailing across the sea of dreams."

I was perplexed. His words—at the time—slipped away as his intelligent dialect precedes his age. Of course, I knew nothing of it then. As the years continued by, meshing together in fragmentations of both memory and fantasy, I found myself staring face to face with the symbol again. And again.

And again.

April 13th, 2024. One thousand seven hundred fifteen days after the start. A patchwork of symbolism weaves within my mind as my slumbering body plays within its tales. Stories of bygone characters dance around the vignette-tinted playground. My senses fall flat as I fail to recall the very faces staring me down. On their faceless heads is a detail which clings upon my senseless sight.

Two men stand out among the sea of visitors. Both identities bore scraggly hair which puffed itself into a sphere. The man on the left stood with dark-brown hair, while the other bore a lighter, yet dirtier blond-haired person. It wasn't them, I've never found myself dreaming of their exact features. Yet, it was. A simulacrum of my fears amalgamated in my distant peers.

The dream swiftly plucked itself away from my vision as a searing pain overtook my stomach. Every minute felt like misery—all I wished for was my water to quench my shriveled throat. My light-blue bottle sat farther away than I can reach. I freely kicked my legs at the edge of my bed as my body laid wide awake. Each moment strung on for hours—please, let me move.

My constant pleas pushed against my desires as I silently begged for freedom. Slowly, I disturbed my keeling pose and gripped against my bottle. Intuition informed me of how I yearned for water, but only for its feeling. As the small dribble sat within my mouth, I could feel my aching stomach return back to nothing.

4:50 AM. I sat at the foot of my bed with my eyes fixed on the light illuminated from my window. Dawn barely cracked upon my room as only a glimmer of blue sat above the horizon. The driveway remained black—empty of any unusual cars. Above all, I was expecting the same black truck to present an awaited visitor. Nothing, of course. The days are blurring together.

Before I returned to the senseless sea, I found a familiar symbol dimmed upon my blackened wall. The Dreamcatcher. The same reverse N with its unusual tittles. Nearly ten long years, and I found myself face to face with the unknown. Even as I returned to select a video to sleep to, I saw him at the top of my feed. Same man, same festival, same guitar, same channel. Wretched beast. Horrid switch.

"It's a redo," I muttered to myself. 8:20 AM. "Today is a better day because I allow it to be."

I didn't sleep in this time. Yet, my mind was racing. Amidst my morning routine, I pondered on the meaning of the Dreamcatcher. Was it there to taunt me? Remind me? It appears in fantastical coincidence; what dream does it catch? Fate? Love? War? Was the kid wearing a sleeping cap or a Phrygian cap?

10:30 AM. A wave of noise washed within the walls of the garage as I fixated on the same symbol hung on the load-bearing beam. Maybe there was nothing to it. A litany of artifacts and plaques lined the walls of the garage, displaying the very childhood of a life I've never lived. The Dreamcatcher was part of a collective in which I held no intention of deciphering. "The Snicker Award", "The Rattlesnake Award". These weren't mine, so why should it matter?

My mind focused on the important issues ahead. My hands swung in front of me to hit the bars of an instrument too small for me. I was having fun. The drummer gave us orders while his hand snaked around the shoulders of his lover—a visitor. The both of them sat on top the chair as I've seen before. Oh, the observer. To think, I may be the man in the midnight campground.

My friend—visiting from towns away—talked to us of his busy life. As we drove through Main Street, he told us of his usual day. His early mornings, arduous afternoons, and meaningless evenings. In his sixteen-hour days, he found no time to socialize or hang out. Loneliness was what he ran from. Every hour of his life was occupied to better his life, to escape the realization of where he sat in life.

Another friend—who I confide with my deepest secrets—listens with curiosity as he prods the visitor's life with questions that push the conversation along. Past the theater and approaching the drive-thru, he silences the air with a single inquiry, "Will your life change if you find a lover?"

"If," the visitor emphasizes, "I have no time or need for one."

There it is, graffitied on the road sign ahead. The Dreamcatcher. Sprayed in pure white is the work of a symbol which strikes meaning upon my soul. I can imagine the summer heat outside the car, where I stood amazed instead of aiding my bandmates. That was a distant time, of course. Ten minutes out there was a tenth of a second in the visitor's truck.

3:05 PM. One song in our set and I was already lost in the structure. The intricacies of the form and the style of the solos. Soon, my eyes glazed upon the digital eyes circling the gazebo like vultures. It struck me well my own likeness would appear outside where I could fathom its existence. The feeling was alien. Before, only one set of eyes focused on my being. And even then, their eyes hid underneath a bandmate's phone.

A familiar woman bestowed upon our band a coupon and a singular $100 bill each. As I looked down at her aged face, her complexities could only spark so much. It was a long shot, however, I could only identify the woman as the same observer who handed me a rainbow-themed pin with the words "MOM HUG" in bubbled letters.

Now, it was different. Handed to me was a slip of paper—a coupon—for a local restaurant. Inscribed in ink, beneath the printed words, was the same Dreamcatcher symbol etched on the slip. Of course, I left to claim the coupon whenever possible. The reappearance of this symbol continued to surprise me, it almost appeared at random.

4:50 PM. Our performance has long ended. Recent memories of familiar bonding danced in my mind as I sat in the sanctuary of the restaurant. The recurrence of the Dreamcatcher enamored me, its occupancy in my mind taunted me like a distant memory. My words quickly join the dancing thoughts, "It's a redo."

The answer overwhelms my expressions in a state of pure realization. My friends slightly eye me before I return to my neutral expression. I couldn't tell if they knew what I was thinking, but their conversation continued on to prove my hypothesis correct.

"It's best to let the reader figure out the meaning." The words of my English teacher push through my conspiring thoughts. Oh, Orphanmaker. "Let them find your meaning or let them find their own."

6:30 PM. My friends and I met at a granite table with a checkered pattern inscribed in the stone. As their conversation continued on about the future of the band, my eyes idled around the surrounding area as I scanned the crowd. In comparison to the earlier three hours, the park found itself crowded in people from end to end. They were here for the main course of the festival, of course. Their set list remained identical, but their members had changed.

Soon, my focus sat on the edge of the park. A wall of graffiti—more eloquently a mural—stretched from edge to edge as it covered the barren wall of a tan building in a colorful display. Most jarring of all was the Dreamcatcher, which blended in well to the mural. Why now?

"Who would win a game of chess?" The words of the pianist recall from my parallel memory. "Someone who can see the future or a mind reader?"

I fell asleep for that conversation. I heard it come on amidst a sea of one-sided discussion. Already, exhaustion had taken hold of my body that day as I fell asleep on the floor with nothing but my clothes. Oh, how the world rhymes.

Two kids—adorned with orange tails and animal ears—danced around the dormant fountain's design as they chased each other. I couldn't help myself but to watch the two run along the open space. This place was packed, I thought, how could they find the time? The Dreamcatcher—formed in the cracks and holes of the fountain—allowed such ritual.

9:20 PM. Anger overwhelmed my senses as I placed myself in an unwilling location. Never until now have I walked within the interior of a pub, and never have I performed among the same men which paved the path I walked. My rage flung itself from fear; control. Everything I yearned for needed to be right. Why wasn't it? My friends only added fuel to the fire. They spoke with confidence on an instrument they seldom knew, "It's right because I said it's right."

After I had situated my vibraphone atop the stage, all I could feel was regret. My rage-induced high mellowed out to the pits of regret as I recalled the words I used against them. I apologized—profusely. As I idly drank my cup of water, I recognized the song performed was off the album Headhunters; Watermelon Man. As soon as their performance concluded, our band picked up with another song off the same album; Chameleon.

Even as I played, I could feel the presence of the Dreamcatcher. The warmth of the melodies. The embrace of the solos. My mallets sailed and struck against the vibraphone with precision and delicacy. Despite the ferocity and the passion, it felt calm. In the eye of the arpeggiated storm was a hug of passion.

"I worked for this," I assured myself across festivals, "I earned it."

The songs blurred by, as if I was asleep for it all. Stress eluded me as my mistakes sifted away through the crucible of passion. All good things must come to an end. Of course, I knew this adage well. 11 PM flashed by and signaled an end to it all.

Where was the Dreamcatcher? Two hours came and went as the paralleled rest. While I deconstructed my vibraphone to its transportable pieces, I tuned in to the overlapping wisdom bestowed upon our band by two varied sources. I took in what I could as I packed my mallets back into the crowded bag where it belonged.

Only as I slipped the two sticks inside did the Dreamcatcher reveal itself. Claimed in marker, the wooden handles held the very symbol I searched for. I've owned these mallets for so long—I thought—why did I only notice now? It slipped by my senses for an unknown amount of time.

How long have I carried the Dreamcatcher under my unknowing hands?

"Do you still love someone after the relationship's over?" My friend questioned. He focused on the midnight road ahead as the conversation pivoted to his question. "Even if it's not the same, is the love still there?"

April 12th, 2024. One thousand seven hundred fourteen days after the start. The question wedged itself within my thoughts as I listened on to the conversation. We were only a few minutes away from the gas station, after I've caught up in explaining my worst affairs with my greatest friend—the pianist. It felt wrong, worded fluffing padded my mouth as each word felt meaningless yet hurtful at the same time.

Regardless, the driver continued in a seamless thought, "I mean, I still love my girlfriend. There's nothing that can replace how I feel for her. But, out in the distance, I still feel something towards everyone else I dated before me—my exes."

"Well, yeah." The pianist placed his foot in the door of conversation, "But what about familial love? Platonic? Do you still love your mother while she's alive? Do you suddenly hate her when she's dead?"

Of course, you do. What good is it when you break the bonds you crafted with others?

"I can't speak on behalf of what romantic love feels like," he continues, "But it's weird when you no longer love someone after you stop talking to them. What about the memories? The time you spent together?"

Yes, but granted, something terrible must happen in order for that event to even occur.

Out of the blue—by a leap in conversation or time—the driver continues with a new question, "When was the last time you said I love you?"

Not since July.

In reaction, I spoke my thoughts out loud. I could see the pianist look towards me with a knowing expression. Similar to the revelation at the restaurant, all he could do is acknowledge my reaction and continue on.

The two's words blur together as I contemplated my own response. The phrase was sacred to me, it feels like I've reserved it for people who I can no longer say it to. It's a privilege to receive my love. No, it's a privilege to receive their love. How do you read the Dreamcatcher, if at all?

How many Leyes can you tell yourself before it all catches up to you?

[soft-humming-moon]

hey chat what if i just put an entire chapter of a book im writing underneath the cut? That would be pretty funny I th

CHAPTER 1: CHRYSANTHEMUM

001 - DREAM

Soft—my grasp around his body felt nothing but. With my fingertips gently grazing against the material of his clothings, I could barely stand to perceive myself as myself. For all I cared, I was nothing but a set of hands.

But he stood right on front of me; I could perceive him. At first I couldn’t stand to stare into his feline eyes. No living man holds natural yellow eyes; everything about him was wrong. Yet, here I was. My yearning body threw itself to siphon whatever warmth exists on him. Seconds pass, I weep into the crook of his shoulder. My arms tightly bend around his body while my hands idly brush against the fur of his tail. I can’t seem to figure out how I got in this situation, but one of his hands softly strokes through my hair. For what it was worth, he made my hair feel like fine silk.

There was something about how stagnant he was—I could explore to my heart’s desire. Any of my burning passions which weakened me from the inside were nothing but paint to his blank state. I can’t tell if he stares at me with apathy, sympathy, or any empathetic qualities. I’m not sure if he can tell how desperate I am as a person.

“What am I?” Words barely escape my mouth as I look up towards him. “Really?”

He doesn’t move—he doesn’t budge. While my hands delicately feel against his bony ribs hidden underneath his skin, I’m barely able to cause a reaction. When was this a game? No matter how hard I try, any attempt at physical touch is muted in response. I’m hopeless, mainly, but I’m greedy.

While my hand gently sifts through his hair, another hand holds up his chin as my tear-stained eyes lock on to his. Never before have I felt so comfortable looking directly at his eyes. I know he can read my thoughts—I see him softly shake his head as a thought comes to my mind, “No.”

I whine, I weep. Why can someone so moldable like him hold limits? Desperately, my hands stick in place as I push my body closer to his. In response, he only steps backwards to push space between us. I’ll never understand him. He waits until I exhaust every last tear from my disheveled body before he brings me in close with one of his hands rubbing against my back in circles.

“I’m sorry” I repeatedly stammer. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He lifts my head up, making sure he has my attention. He waits until I cease my sobbing and truly admire his face. The silence after was hell. Never in my life has the absence of noise been so deafening.

“I am your limit.” He speaks. “I only allow for you todo what you’ll do to yourself. Truly, do you write of the things you think?”

Louder—yet stagnant. Words fail to piece themselves together as a coherent thought departs with each mirage of hope. My hands are greedy, yet his grasp is stronger. After a while, I realize he never anticipated a vocal answer from myself. In all honesty, he waited for the thoughts to align in a way he desired them to.

He was perfect. I look up to him with lust—if anything. His slim body, his long and bushy tail, his soft face, his pointy fox ears. Sometimes, I can only salivate. Sometimes, I can only dream of what I could do to him.

“So, what are we waiting for?”

Me, Myself, and I. Always, and forever will be.

002 - PRELUDE

“Don’t you have your own bed?” he reminds me while twirling his own hair, “You’re paying more than me for all of the bills, I don’t see why you need to share the bed with me here and now.”

As he spoke, I sat on the edge of his mattress with both my hands and feet pressed against his blankets. While considering his words, my expression lightly soured while I kept my attention towards him. With a simple reposition, I fix my limbs to sit in a quadrupedal position.

Danilo softly scoffed at my display as he checked the curtains within the room. All of the windows were blacked out by an opaque curtain, preventing any moonlight from pouring in. After the observation, he would adjust himself underneath the sheets of his bed while speaking, “Are you having one of those nights, Dani? If it helps you sleep tonight, sure. Get in.”

I excitedly burrow within the bed as I hastily draped the bedsheets above me. While Danilo worked on fixing the mess I made with the sheets, I wrapped my arms around his body while resting my head underneath his chin. My legs quickly snake around his while I involuntarily let out soft whimpers and whines.

“Settle down, settle down…” he softly reassures me while sifting his fingers through my hair, “You’re gonna have to talk if you want to sleep with me tonight. I know you don’t want to, but I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Tomorrow…” I pleaded, “let me sleep now…”

“Tonight, tell me what’s up tonight. What happened? Did you have another bout of insecurity.”

“Yeah… I did.”

“Oh, come on. The whole world isn’t out to get you. You know that, right?”

For an extended period, I would look up to him with my undivided attention. I made sure to keep my glance focused with my extraneous motions held still—all for emphasis.

“Okay,” Danilo surrendered, “the town may completely turn on you, but you’re safe here. You always know that.”

After his reassurances, he continued to weave his fingers through my delicate hair as another hand reached over to gently rub against my back in circles. His exhales and inhales slowed with each breath while his eyes closed in concentration.

Meanwhile, I could feel my negative feelings melting from my body. My intense shaking—throughout my whole body—gradually diminishes while I focus on the warm touch of his skin. I couldn’t help myself but to softly rub my cheek against his chest.

“You know I care about you, right?” Danilo continued to sift his hand within my hair, almost as if he was searching for something. “I have my boundaries, you know that. I still go to work—but it’s all to protect you.”

“Are you saying that just to make yourself feel better?” I questioned, “or do you genuinely mean it?”

“What?” For a moment, Danilo halted with his motions while looking down towards me. “No, why would you think that? Do you think I get some type of reward for cultivating you?”

“That’s what I feel everyone does…”

“Come on—everyone? What about Laque? You two hang out together every week or so. You’re always coming back with something fun to say.”

“Well… you’re right. I don’t think he’d do all that to betray me.”

“And Cheese? You’ve know him since you were kids. Granted, he’s known you before you’ve had the curse, but you two are still friends as if nothing ever happened.”

“Yeah, him too. I guess he’s not out for me either.”

“See? It’s your insecurities messing with you. I don’t think anything wrong about you, either. Although, I do find you a little strange at times.”

I furrow my eyebrows as I look back up to Danilo. Without any words, my expression quickly shifts to that of confusion as I try and understand his words. One of my hands lifts from his body as I purposefully pull his own hand from my hair. “What do you mean strange?”

“Well, don’t take it in a bad way,” Danilo continues, “I’ve never met anyone who purposefully acts like an animal and generates a suspicious amount of money through revealing images on the internet.”

“There’s an audience for everything!” I exclaim, “it’s not like anyone in the town can even pinpoint who I am. I’ve never shown anyone the interior of our house, and I conceal my face and any identifying marks. Don’t think you’ve got something to stand on just because you have a nine to five.”

After I spoke, a silence grips against the interior of the room as I watch Danilo’s face shift in contemplation. With his now free hand, he reaches over towards the side of the bed to grab a small, black remote. With his thumb idly combing over the multiple buttons spread across the stick.

“I never said that was bad,” he soon responds, “if anything, I find it interesting you use your curse productively like that. I don’t fully understand it, but I respect it.”

I return the same, puzzled stare back up at him as I did moments prior. “Are you saying the right words just to make me feel happy?”

“That’s never been my intention, and you know that.”

“Right, thanks, Danilo.”

“I’m your roommate for a reason. Do you want to watch a show to cheer yourself up?”

Almost immediately, I would scramble up from under the sheets to sit on top with my focus placed towards the screen in front of the bed. As Danilo repositioned himself to rest his back on the wooden back of the bed, I laid back with my head returning to lay on his chest.

While he repositioned his hand to resume his previous routine, he would simultaneously navigate through the television’s channels. With quick eyes, he read off the title of the shows and movies while flicking through the catalogue.

Against the television’s chaotic noise, I suddenly spoke aloud, “You’re still okay with what happened Saturday night, right? Are you mad or anything?”

“What?” He quickly broke his concentration to reply, “no, of course not. If anything, I enjoyed it.”

Once he finished speaking, I could feel my body sinking deeper into his blanket-covered body as his words echoed around in the front of my mind. The looping thoughts resounded with joy as my mind was put into a great ease.

While I was occupied with Danilo’s response, he would settle down on a rerun of a program we both watched together. Once he placed the remote back on the nightstand, Danilo reached his arm around my chest as he rested his elbow on top of my shoulder. All I could do now was gradually fix my focus to the show as his words floated around with no signs of stopping.

003 - PARTY

The night sky blinked with multicolored sparks, raining down its vibrant lights with a trail of smoke to follow. Chaotic bursts of noise scattered themselves among the plentiful stars—a distant cousin briefly staying in their celestial family’s residence. As these sparks fought for dominance against the dark clouds and chipped moon, they reigned supreme across the night sky.

December 31st, 20XX. The year of the animal was just around the corner. The final grains of sand slid through the top half of the hourglass. Twenty minutes of impending change. All of the houses illuminated their vibrant lights as the asphalts of the neighborhood streets were alight to the festive spirit contained within these houses.

Nested in the suburban sprawls of Normal was a chateau which reigned upon the upper middle class. Gates with a gem resembling a family crest locked the ordinary man from the loudest party in the city. Partygoers from around the Penumbran Strip gathered to celebrate the end of a simple era and to welcome in the joys of new beginnings.

And where was I among all this? Sat in the bustling mansion tucked away in the quietest spot of them all. A maid’s closet—that’s what I assume, anyway. Moments prior I stole a handful of unopened bottles of wine from the never-ending snack table placed in the foyer. What was a hassle for me was nothing more of a margin of error for the host.

Laque, the host. It’s not that I desire him, I cherish him as a friend. Sometimes, however, I don’t know when to say no. Every year, I find myself accepting an invitation to the largest party in the Strip. And for each party, I’m always within the closet kept to my own devices. I understand why he invites me—we’ve known each other for so long. In comparison to even the poorest guests, I reside as a stark outlier.

The taste of alcohol was present with each swig. Before, I would steal an equal amount of soda to held the taste. Now, I simply don’t care to hide the taste. It’s what I deserve—my punishment. Why trap yourself in the grandest social event in the area. Stepping outside was a dangerous game considering how glass windows stripped any and all privacy of the chateau’s interior.

The light in here was good enough. A fluorescent bulb kept overhang with a thin chain as a switch. This is as best as it gets, sometimes. I’ve nestled a blanket and pillow in here, sometimes. Somehow, it remains within the closet even after a full year. I highly doubt people check this closet. It’s just an extra room blind to the experienced workers of the manor.

And then, there was a set of knocks. My heart immediately jumped out of my chest as my hands scrambled to hide the alcohol among the cleaning supplies. Despite this, the door slowly creaks open to reveal a man staring down at me. It wasn’t just any man, no. With his recognizable yellow eyes and shaggy, brown hair; I could recognize his face from across the manor if the circumstances allowed.

“You know,” he starts, “I’m not surprised this is where you hide off to for these parties. I kind of forgot you’re on good terms with Laque.” My hands were shaking. While my fingers tapped away on the edges of the nearby shelves, my mind was racing to find any amount of words to say. Once the sentence formed itself in my mind—a perfect retort—I shoddily released the string of words in a trembling voice, “What are you doing at Laque’s party?!”

“I’m his cousin, remember?” He taps against his temple with his index finger. “Danilo Toru? Laque Toru? I’m nowhere near the fortune, but he still remembers I exist. Unlike his parents.”

After fumbling my own words, I quickly swiped my hands to the pillow stowed away within the closet. As I buried my face within the luxuriously soft material, I contorted the muscles in my face to hold back any tears. I hoped—I prayed—that the noise would quiet down into its muffled state. I awaited the sweet silence to return back to me. To hell with the destructive thoughts, it’s all I know.

A hand firmly grasped against my shoulder beyond my senses. As the noise outside quietened down to its muffled state, the hand would adjust itself upon my tattered shirt. Just in front of my pillow, his voice would pierce through the soft material, “You’re not gonna hide under your pillow all night long, you know.”

I slowly lowered the pillow down toward my legs after giving myself a moment to compose myself. Without another moment, Danilo would reach his other hand to press against my remaining shoulder. Afterwards, I was able to gain a glimpse at how he was standing. Both of his knees were on the ground as the legs down acted as support. With both of his hands grasped against me, he was able to lean forward a considerable amount.

“One step at a time,” he remarked, “Are you planning to hole yourself up in this closet until the sun breaks or do you want me to drive you home?”

For a moment, my mind quickly panicked. My hands left their grasp against the pillow as they wrapped around the wrist of Danilo’s arms. My body desperately conveyed its decision paralysis while my mouth remained silent.

Danilo would softly laugh at my display as he moved each hand off of my shoulder. While my wrists were wrapped around tight, he could still balance with his leaning position. “I’ll take you home. It’s okay. You don’t have to talk. But, I need to do a few things first.”

Immediately, I was confused. As my emotions calmed down, I mustered what words I could out from my mouth to respond, “What do you mean? How can you have errands at a party?”

“Well, I want to see the countdown at least. Laque’s down at the basement with his brother at the mini-bar. I certainly want to talk to him before we leave, but there’s not a lot of people either. If you’re comfortable with it, you can probably speak with him too.”

I slowly nod while I continue to listen.

“There’s no windows down there—you won’t have any contact with the moonlight. After we see the countdown, then we can leave. Sound good?”

Silently, I give a weak thumbs up before I push against the ground to stand back up. With Danilo’s help, we both push ourselves off the ground of the maid’s closet. While we’re both standing, he reaches one arm around my shoulder to keep me close as the remaining hand opens the door out to the rest of the chateau.

“Come on,” he reassures me, “I’ll always be here if you need anything.”

004 - SUMMARY

Work was exhausting. Every weekday starts before the sun rises and ends just as the natural light of the world fades upon the city. Most of my hours bleed away within the confines of a wholesale warehouse where I move boxes and direct customers and retailers alike. Nothing new happens within the scaffold-like walls, and sometimes I like it this way.

Personally, there’s a sort of satisfaction I get from the long hours. While my lineage prides itself on the inheritance of their hardly-working ancestors, I’ve broken that in a plea for satisfaction. Don’t get me wrong—I haven’t shunned myself from their generosity. I’d much rather gather my worth as a man by my own hands than what was provided to me. However, my name, Danilo, remains a part of me granted by my heritage.

Normal—love this town. Everyone here prides themselves on the extraordinary fact that nothing differs in this town. Once, this town was named Celeste—based on the founder of the city. Of course, this recently changed in favor of a surprisingly active tourism scene. Traps and attractions all surrounding the novelty of normality sell themselves as a getaway to the towns around them. I mean, I can’t blame them. Where else would I go to get away from it all when there’s a federal-enforced barricade around the Penumbran Strip.

The roads are packed most of the time. I remember nearly fifteen years ago when the roads were newly paved with asphalt. The procedure was slow and methodical. My father once told me about a time in the town’s history when dirt roads snaked through the town to small grocery stores and underfunded amenities. Now, this place is different. Sometimes I envy my father for living in his time. Yet, it’s hard to place if my envy is on a cause of these roads or for something greater.

I hear an onslaught of chatter among coworkers and customers alike in my hours. Some customers drive all the way to Normal due to the price of the goods. Why spend your money in a grocery store barely surviving against the town’s mandated horror than to spend it in bulk in a town known for its relative paradise? This process of thought feels rational, yet I can’t help but shake the thought of inevitable instability. At what point will this town remain as the only habitable location?

I can relate to the pride the residents share with this town. Imagine waking up one day and learning the rest of the now-called “Strip” was affected with this mysterious affliction—and you weren’t. You would assume you just won the lottery. Fate and divine alike marked an unfathomable amount of men to a newly created Hell in America and here you are—a blindspot in its wrath. At the end of the day, all of this clamoring reduces itself to a game of superiority. “Fate favors the wealthy”; a phrase which many men place upon this town. God bless it.

This town has yet to be hit by the suburban plague. The lack of an infrastructure and a desire has left most of the towns within the strip as immune. Yet, plagues mutate. Idle conversations and local news segments discuss the benefit of suburban neighborhoods. We have the budget—they state—we can support a project like this. I can’t wait to imagine how they pull it off.

In the meantime, I’ll spend the foreseeable future in my small one-story house nestled in the haphazard sprawl of individualized homes. The exterior is nothing to write home about—bland colored walls with windows closed off from the inside. A mailbox awaits at the edge of the concrete driveway, leading to a garage where I park my two-seater car within the protection of the elements. Once I shade my only vehicle within the garage, the bulky, metallic door slides down to hide it away from the sins of the world.

Waiting in the small fridge next to the entrance to my house is a set of carbonated beverages ready to grab from a brightly-colored box. With my canned drink in hand, I snap open the thin cover to release a swarm of bubbles to the top of my drink. I wasn’t expecting much to change with the house—why should it? But, there’s always a nagging feeling that something should change. The same routine of unwinding from a long day at work.

Yet, nothing would change. The house remains in one piece. I can hear the distant noise of the television’s broadcast from the living room all the way from the exit from the garage. If there’s any type of noise in the house, then my roommate, Dani, is asleep. The inverse to this observation is true, as well. With this information, you can infer how unsurprised I was when I found her asleep on the couch.

It’s hard to summarize who Dani is through a brief synopsis. Firstly, she’s my roommate. The summary could end there. However, there’s a lot more to her that provokes some further explanation. The reason she’s my roommate is through the efforts of my cousin, Laque. Those two have been friends ever since elementary school; they’ve been through thick and thin. When he proposed the idea to me, I never really understood where he was getting at. Out of all of the people, why me? Why not let her live in the mansion if you believe it so?

Of course, this was Laque. Sometimes, he has a hunch on certain ideas and insists it’ll work out in the end. I don’t think I’ve seen a premonition of his that hasn’t worked well. That, or he really wanted to see us get along well because of our similar names.

Secondly, Dani has an unusual connection to everything outside of this town. She’s developed a name for herself as a “persona”. Which, subjectively, I don’t particularly care about. If anything, I’m a little envious on how her prospects online pays better than my grueling full-time job. At some points, she’s offered to cover some of my expenses so I can work a part-time job. I’ve declined this, of course. It feels like she’s a projection of my family—some distant relative that’s still influenced by their arcane touch.

Thirdly, she has no sense of fashion or anything beyond basic hygiene. Thankfully, she showers often enough. From what I’ve last checked, her pointed teeth are whiter than my own. Her dirtied brown hair throws itself into a cacophony of shapes, yet it all remains unnaturally curly. All of her clothes are a mixture of white t-shirts, some sweatpants and an occasional jacket or two. From her minimalist wardrobe, there’s this style to her that would allow her to fit in to the slums of a metropolitan city.

Her favorite shirts—above all—are esoteric in-jokes involving unfathomable words. She tells me they’re all designed by her friends. It’s nice—I adore the charm—but it feels too “avant-garde” for me. Most of these shirts are covered by an orange hoodie whenever she goes outside, so I don’t believe most of the town sees the shirt’s displays.

Fourthly—and most distressing—Dani’s very touchy. If there was any indication of heritage, it would be her nonverbal body language. She always reaches over for hugs when she’s happy. She always wants a high-five for something that excites her. It’s strange, really. I’ve hailed from a family where contact between each other was kept for situations where it couldn’t be avoided. With her, it’s a completely different approach.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate how she displays herself. It’s always an aspect of her that catches me off guard. Over the time we’ve spent together as roommates, we’ve kind of bonded together more of friends if anything. She always indulges about her life with me—what she does and the history behind it all. Admittedly, I don’t have much to share back. It’s nice to sit down and listen, though. I’ve grown to enjoy the simple act of mildly caring for her. Not in a familial way, but something that draws compassion from somewhere I never knew was there to begin with.

When she first moved in, I was a little concerned with the adamant usage of blackout curtains. Every window in the house has a set of its own, and she always draws them shut around 4 pm. She told me I could open them whenever I wanted, but she couldn’t be in the same room.

Over the years, these little things compounded on themselves in a noticeable pattern. The next idea that struck me odd was her sharp teeth. Once, we were both in the bathroom cleaning it out and she briefly stopped to check her teeth in the mirror. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. Though this small detail slightly compounded.

Eventually, I realized how much she cared about eating meat. Dani had these specific preferences towards individualized brands, and there’d never be a deficit of any sort no matter the time of day. Alongside this, she always sleeps in her bed in a curled-up position. Obviously, the television inside her room would play a documentary of various subjects to keep her asleep.

It all compounded—the distaste for the night, the limited social gatherings, among others. Personally, I didn’t care. I’d be an ass of a person if I disliked how a functional adult lived their life. Over the months, I’ve debated with myself if I should even confront her about it. Especially now, she was very secretive about her external life. In contrast to her tendency to divulge every last detail of herself, it was the complete opposite when she first moved in.

One night, while we were both situated on the couch in the living room, I found myself unable to keep my eyes open while watching a familiar rerun of one of our favorite cartoons. As I sat myself up from the couch and yawned, I could hear Dani stuttering with her words for a little bit before sitting me down.

She disclosed the fact that she’s been meaning to tell me something for months. Dani planned out all of the reactions to what she was about to say—with her tidied bags, I admittedly thought she was going to move out soon and this was the heads up. But, she would bring up a question which completely blindsided me, “Do you know how each town has its own curse?”

I remember how puzzled I was at the question. Over the next minute, I thought of all of the curses each town had and how our town—Normal—was devoid of it. Within her shaking body and pre-planned words, Dani spoke about how she was the curse and how no one else in the town ever knew about it. The sharp teeth, hatred for the night, the fixation on meat—I was surprised how I didn’t catch on earlier. Fifthly, she was a werewolf.

In the moment, the information was a lot for me to process. While it had certainly replaced my views on this town and its stature, it would slowly dawn on me how significant the concealment of her secret would be. What if the town knew? They’d certainly ostracize her. Or worse, kill her. The damage she could cause on the town’s reputation was a palpable feeling, and it was clearly something on her mind behind her warm tears.

I couldn’t find myself sleeping that night. The next morning, I crammed as many caffeinated beverages within my system as my body could allow. But, throughout the night, I stayed awake to comfort Dani. With a blanket wrapped around her body and a box of tissues nearby, I could only assume this was what Laque meant when he wanted us to live together.

005 - AFTERMATH

It took me a few days. If anything, one part of the process was the ample amount of questions I had. While I was fine with the consequences of protecting the load-bearing resident of this town, I was still left confused and intrigued.

Once Dani calmed down enough, I was able to ask her a few questions regarding the information while I was unwinding from another day of work. “So, did Laque know about this beforehand?”

“Laque?” Dani questioned with intrigue. She would reveal her head from her room with her hands resting on the frame. “You’re the first person I’ve told about this…”

“Curse?”

“Yeah, but don’t call it that. I don’t like thinking this whole werefox thing is a curse.”

“Isn’t it a werewolf?”

“No—completely different. One’s a fox and one’s a wolf.”

“But they’re both canines.”

“Well, yeah. But that’s not really an excuse to lump them both together. Apples and oranges are both fruits, but they’re still different in taste and looks.”

“I guess so.”

Dani slowly rescinds back into her room as she inaudibly mumbles to herself.

“So would it be better to think of you as a pet in this roommate-situation or another resident.”

“What?!”

The question was enough for Dani to return back to her peering position on the door frame. Though, this time, she was a lot more agitated than before. Yet, I continued to speak, “I don’t know—feels like I need to accommodate for the information somewhat.”

“Like how?!”

“I mean, the meat-part’s covered. You’re practically potty-trained. Do I need to get you chipped just in case you run off? Do you still think like us; do I need to dumb things down? Will you suddenly get distracted when you see a chicken?”

“Do you hear yourself?! No! Nothing’s changing! I don’t need to get chipped. I’m just like everyone else. And I’ve never been distracted with a live chicken!”

“Wait, is the reason you get all pouty sometimes is because you’re holed up in the house most of the time? Do you want me to take you on walks?”

“You’re still not thinking of me as a normal person!”

“Right, sorry.”

Eventually, the air of hostility would die down as I returned back to the idle show on the television. Dani retreated back into her room as she shuts and locks the door behind her. I didn’t hear much back from her for a while.

A few minutes later, she would hastily swing her door open while darting directly towards me. Part of me flinched as she reached her hand over, but none of me expected her to grab my hand. With a strong yank, she pulls me off of the couch while grumpily giving me orders, “We’re going on a walk now, and I don’t care if you get tired.”

At first I was taken aback, but eventually I would accept the demand while walking over to my jacket hanging near the front door. “You could’ve just asked for something like this, but sure.”

006 - BRUNCH

An afternoon at the Toru Estate sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to everyone else—but to me, it’s an average Thursday. Every lunch, Laque always invites me and Danilo out to join him and his family for dinner. And after lunch, he indulges us on the amenities stored away in the nooks and crannies of the estate.

Laque always enjoys spending the afternoon with us���even if it’s for a few hours. I’m sure he doesn’t mind the mess that’s left from the weekly get-togethers, but I try and stay as cordial within reason.

The chateau is always as immaculate as an advertisement. With all of the servants working underneath the family’s rule, it’s rare—if not impossible—to find a smidge of dirt or grime left behind for any outside or indoor reason. At the point in his life, I believe Laque’s grown numb to the pristine. If I brought him to my house, he’d faint upon entrance.

“Glad you could come this week!” Laque cheerfully thanked us between each sip of some exotic wine, “The week’s been tough—with all the tourists and all. Honestly, I’m a little surprised you two made it on time! I was expecting some sort of mild delay.”

Danilo—seated on the opposite side of the table—was hardly swayed by the extravagant aesthetic laid out by the mansion. The gold and marble rooted within the various materials and fabrics barely held an effect to his mannerisms. Even in his words, he spoke as if he was home, “We left early. Dani was finishing up with her work for the night, so it was a little bit of a crunch.”

Laque, on the other hand, was interested in the small explanation Danilo gave him. Not that he assumed it was a lie—no. Every facet of any of our lives as something the aristocrat enjoyed hearing about. “Ah! I don’t suppose you two see each other much, no? You always work while the sun’s bright while Dani’s wide awake at midnight! What do you say you do again, Dani?”

“Online content creation,” I recited, “I can work whichever schedule I want, as long as it stays consistent on the other side.”

“I envy her a little bit.” Danilo waited until he finished with his current bite off his plate before continuing with his thoughts. “I had to fight to shift my hours on Thursday—switch from starting in the morning to the afternoon. Her? She just has to make sure whatever she needs to do is prepared.”

While none of what Danilo said was a lie, it was still sugarcoated to a small degree. As easy as his explanation sounds, the work required isn’t simply adhering to a schedule. Right now, I didn’t want to focus on the full logistics with my food still in front of me. I kept myself silent as the two cousins reconnected.

“You know, you’ve never really spoken about why you left your family,” the aristocrat moved on to a new topic, “You don’t have to answer this—of course. I’m just a little curious. Is it all really because you didn’t want their protection?”

Even with the question, Danilo wouldn’t budge in emotion. From his expressions, what was seemingly a touchy subject wasn’t much of an issue with him. He responded with a collected tone, “I just don’t want to live out the rest of my days without some sort of struggle.”

A confused expression overtook Laque as he heard Danilo’s response. “Our ancestors did the hard work for us, you know. I mean, if I bog myself down in needless strain, there’ll be less time to enjoy life in the moment. You know?”

“That’s what my coworkers think. Why am I—a descendant of wealth—working a nine-to-five at a warehouse? It’s like they’re staring directly at a descendant of European royalty.”

Laque didn’t seem to be affected by Danilo’s words. He would still listen on, but he would finish his plate while allowing his cousin to finish.

“I’m just not suited for this type of lifestyle. I mean, sure. We both graduated from the same prestigious private school near the Strip. But that felt like our parents just handed the school money to claim we’re up to standard with the curriculums. Graduating from that school was enough of a credit to where I didn’t need to search far for a job. I didn’t work for anything in life—I don’t like that.”

After his winded spiel, Danilo took a moment to recompose himself. While I silently cleaned what little crumbs remained off my plate, I scanned my head back and forth to look back towards the two. From Danilo’s scathing words, I expected Laque’s demeanor to shift from jovial to grave.

Despite my assumptions, he seemed to be happy with the response Danilo gave. “Well, I can’t really tell you how to live. At least you can live a normal life in this town. I’d hate to juggle a full time job while in fear of some shapeshifting beast, you know?”

“Hm,” Danilo muttered out, “You could say that.”

Once I finished my plate, I would leave all of my used silverware on top as I silently departed from the table. I couldn’t muster any words to announce that I was leaving. While Laque didn’t seem to notice, Danilo slightly turned his attention toward me before returning his gaze to his cousin.

“Well, hey!” Laque continues, “You know of one of my friends—right? Mute, pink tips with thin, round glasses? Last I got in touch with them, they were defending their family from the town’s undead infestation.”

While I snuck off, I continued to eavesdrop on the conversation while putting my attention towards Danilo’s slight movements. I watched as he adjusted his position in his seat at the mention of Laque’s friend. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

“It can’t get worse than that, right? We live in the greatest city in the Strip, and I’m sure you’d do the same to protect your lifestyle if there was some issue with this town. Probably not some loyalty to the town—I could be wrong—but just to keep some normalcy in your life!”

The rest of the conversation devolved beyond a point where I could handle it. With shaky hands, I navigate down the flight of stairs to the basement where I take my residence on an expansive sofa. My emotion melted away at my insides as I confined myself within my own thoughts.

Even through layers of left-around blankets, my skin felt cold to the touch as I failed to focus on any of the details beyond the nearby coffee table. Part of me desperately yearned to reach for my phone—to grant myself some escape from my overwhelming emotions. However, a louder half forced me to remain curled up on the sofa, shivering.

The passage of time slipped away from my thoughts. What was once a laser-focus on each passing second gave way to more pressing priorities. Could I really drive home in this condition? How long do I need to keep this secret from Laque? The logical part of my thoughts knew the frenzy of emotions held no reason to shake me to this level. It was an off-handed mention, he wasn’t talking about me. Nonetheless, the simple realization wasn’t enough to break through the fog.

Suddenly, I felt a warm grasp on both of my hands. As my fingers curled around each hand, I haphazardly looked up to see Danilo standing right in front of me. While my focus would swiftly snap to his yellow eyes, I slowly sat up on the couch with my grasp tightening around his hands.

“That bad?” he questioned, “I know what he said—I didn’t think it was that bad. But, I can’t really dismiss it. Are you okay?”

I barely managed to push out any verbal response to him. Before I could try at a second attempt, Danilo lifted one of his hands off from my grasp. His freed hand pulls the blanket around my head off to my shoulders to reveal my frayed hair. With gently strokes, he softly combs through my hair without breaking his attention.

“I have to go to work, but if you really don’t want to stay any longer, just say you have to leave to grab my missing bag from the house for me. Is there anything you need?”

Danilo’s words were a softer in tone than they were at the dinner table. I’ve already recognized why, yet his quietened voice hadn’t lost its charm. With a tight pull, I wrap both of my arms around his body while pressing my exposed face against his clothes.

“Don’t go,” I squeaked out, “Please.”

“I wish…” Danilo slowly stepped away as his hands returned to his side. “I’ll try and get home as soon as possible, okay? Sorry lunch turned out like this.”

As I accepted Danilo’s departure, I gave a small wave goodbye as he left up the stairs. After he left, I kept my attention to the closed door at the top of the stairs. What good was there but to stare? Eventually, I followed suit to return back to Laque. I felt better, no doubt. Even for a short moment, the brief time I spent with Danilo was enough to revitalize me for just a little bit longer.

007 - EIGHTH GRADE

With a cheerful wave, Laque recognizes my arrival from the basement as I sit back down at my seat at the table. Once I fully settle down, he leans forward with his arms pressing against the table to speak, “So, Danilo’s gone back to work. Can I get you anything? More food? A refill?”

“I’ll take a refill,” I answer, “And a bowl of crackers. I’m not that hungry.”

Without hesitation, the heir of the castle sits up from his seat to fulfill my task. There’s an air of tension—the feeling is unmistakable. From what I recall from the previous times, the both of us usually talked for an hour before one of Laque’s many servants gave me a ride back home. I knew Danilo’s excuse was something thought of on the spot. I’d need to find a backpack in the house and be given a ride to the warehouse he works at. It’s better for me to endure the pain.

Once the plate of crackers and filled cup arrive back at the table, I focus my attention towards the assortment within the bowl. Obviously, I was pulling my focus away from him. Each time I looked up to see his face, he was always looking down at my orange jacket with a solemn expression. I’m not sure if I caught him giving the same glances earlier, it wasn’t something I paid attention to when Danilo was around.

Minutes pass. I spend the time in silence munching away at crackers. Every once in a while, I’ll look up to see the same judgmental glare. I’m not sure how much time will pass until it stops, but I was ever-curious. “What’s on your mind right now?”

The question immediately took Laque out of his glances. If anything, it looked as if he was trying to find something appropriate to say. “Oh, the jacket. I haven’t really seen it on you since eighth grade.”

“It is a large jacket. I’ve kept it clean and tidy for more than five years.”

“I wonder why.”

The way Laque spoke—it was passively aggressive. It was enough to get me to raise an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s the jacket Chase gave you years ago. I didn’t know you still wear it.”

“It’s a good jacket.”

“You don’t really care about what you wear, do you? I guess you’ve thrown it on because it was the first thing you saw in your closet.”

“Are you still mad about what happened in eighth grade.”

Suddenly, Laque scrunched up his eyebrows as he wordlessly took another bite off of his plate.

I knew what he was thinking, he knew what he was thinking. Ever since the mention of eighth grade, I had a large suspicion on where the conversation would lead. I repeat my question, “Laque, are you still mad.”

“No. No I’m not.”

“Then why do you suddenly care about what I’m wearing? Not everything’s your business.”

“What? I don’t care about what jacket you wear. I’m just saying. Do you two still talk?”

“Laque.”

“What? I’m just saying. I still talk to him afterwards—we’re close friends.”

“Why would that matter? I’m not going to tell you if I still talk to Cheese or not.”

“You still call him that?”

“Laque!”

“I’m just saying! I care about my friends. He’s the one that came to me after the breakup.”

At this point, my free hand was pressed down on the edge of the table as I slowly eat crackers to pass the time. I still vividly remember the visceral rage on his face at his birthday party; how silence gripped the room in a tight hold. I spoke through my teeth, “You sure don’t care about what you say to me, though.”

“We all used to be good friends, you know? I don’t think there’s a time afterward where we hung out together. Maybe we can change that?”

“We both know why that doesn’t happen. If you never threw a tantrum because I was ‘ruining the friendship’, then we’d all be having lunch together.”

“We were kids!”

“And you’re still mad about it!”

Another round of silence washes over the dinner table. Laque’s face contorts in a plethora of ways. His eyes darts around the room while he clears his throat often.

I pushed myself up from the dinner table after leaving nothing but crumbs in the bowl. However, the glass of water was left more than half empty. As I adjust my coat, I finish up the conversation, “I’m heading home. I don’t know why you’re still acting like this, but I don’t want to talk to someone who’s this invested in my personal life.”

“Fine,” he replied back. I could’ve mistaken his faint remorse for isolation. “But you’re the one who’s still wearing the jacket.”

As I leave the castle and notify Laque’s chauffeur, I spend a moment of the downtime to take off Chase’s orange jacket. Once I finish wrapping it around my waist, I depart from the château back for my house.

[soft-humming-moon]

FAMILY BRUNCH

An afternoon at the Toru Estate sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to everyone else—but to me, it’s an average Thursday. Every lunch, Laque always invites me and Danilo out to join him and his family for dinner. And after lunch, he indulges us on the amenities stored away in the nooks and crannies of the estate.

Laque always enjoys spending the afternoon with us—even if it’s for a few hours. I’m sure he doesn’t mind the mess that’s left from the weekly get-togethers, but I try and stay as cordial within reason.

The chateau is always as immaculate as an advertisement. With all of the servants working underneath the family’s rule, it’s rare—if not impossible—to find a smidge of dirt or grime left behind for any outside or indoor reason. At the point in his life, I believe Laque’s grown numb to the pristine. If I brought him to my house, he’d faint upon entrance.

“Glad you could come this week!” Laque cheerfully thanked us between each sip of some exotic wine, “The week’s been tough—with all the tourists and all. Honestly, I’m a little surprised you two made it on time! I was expecting some sort of mild delay.”

Danilo—seated on the opposite side of the table—was hardly swayed by the extravagant aesthetic laid out by the mansion. The gold and marble rooted within the various materials and fabrics barely held an effect to his mannerisms. Even in his words, he spoke as if he was home, “We left early. Dani was finishing up with her work for the night, so it was a little bit of a crunch.”

Laque, on the other hand, was interested in the small explanation Danilo gave him. Not that he assumed it was a lie—no. Every facet of any of our lives as something the aristocrat enjoyed hearing about. “Ah! I don’t suppose you two see each other much, no? You always work while the sun’s bright while Dani’s wide awake at midnight! What do you say you do again, Dani?”

“Online content creation,” I recited, “I can work whichever schedule I want, as long as it stays consistent on the other side.”

“I envy her a little bit.” Danilo waited until he finished with his current bite off his plate before continuing with his thoughts. “I had to fight to shift my hours on Thursday—switch from starting in the morning to the afternoon. Her? She just has to make sure whatever she needs to do is prepared.”

While none of what Danilo said was a lie, it was still sugarcoated to a small degree. As easy as his explanation sounds, the work required isn’t simply adhering to a schedule. Right now, I didn’t want to focus on the full logistics with my food still in front of me. I kept myself silent as the two cousins reconnected.

“You know, you’ve never really spoken about why you left your family,” the aristocrat moved on to a new topic, “You don’t have to answer this—of course. I’m just a little curious. Is it all really because you didn’t want their protection?”

Even with the question, Danilo wouldn’t budge in emotion. From his expressions, what was seemingly a touchy subject wasn’t much of an issue with him. He responded with a collected tone, “I just don’t want to live out the rest of my days without some sort of struggle.”

A confused expression overtook Laque as he heard Danilo’s response. “Our ancestors did the hard work for us, you know. I mean, if I bog myself down in needless strain, there’ll be less time to enjoy life in the moment. You know?”

“That’s what my coworkers think. Why am I—a descendant of wealth—working a nine-to-five at a warehouse? It’s like they’re staring directly at a descendant of European royalty.”

Laque didn’t seem to be affected by Danilo’s words. He would still listen on, but he would finish his plate while allowing his cousin to finish.

“I’m just not suited for this type of lifestyle. I mean, sure. We both graduated from the same prestigious private school near the Strip. But that felt like our parents just handed the school money to claim we’re up to standard with the curriculums. Graduating from that school was enough of a credit to where I didn’t need to search far for a job. I didn’t work for anything in life—I don’t like that.”

After his winded spiel, Danilo took a moment to recompose himself. While I silently cleaned what little crumbs remained off my plate, I scanned my head back and forth to look back towards the two. From Danilo’s scathing words, I expected Laque’s demeanor to shift from jovial to grave.

Despite my assumptions, he seemed to be happy with the response Danilo gave. “Well, I can’t really tell you how to live. At least you can live a normal life in this town. I’d hate to juggle a full time job while in fear of some shapeshifting beast, you know?”

“Hm,” Danilo muttered out, “You could say that.”

Once I finished my plate, I would leave all of my used silverware on top as I silently departed from the table. I couldn’t muster any words to announce that I was leaving. While Laque didn’t seem to notice, Danilo slightly turned his attention toward me before returning his gaze to his cousin.

“Well, hey!” Laque continues, “You know of one of my friends—right? Mute, pink tips with thin, round glasses? Last I got in touch with them, they were defending their family from the town’s undead infestation.”

While I snuck off, I continued to eavesdrop on the conversation while putting my attention towards Danilo’s slight movements. I watched as he adjusted his position in his seat at the mention of Laque’s friend. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

“It can’t get worse than that, right? We live in the greatest city in the Strip, and I’m sure you’d do the same to protect your lifestyle if there was some issue with this town. Probably not some loyalty to the town—I could be wrong—but just to keep some normalcy in your life!”

The rest of the conversation devolved beyond a point where I could handle it. With shaky hands, I navigate down the flight of stairs to the basement where I take my residence on an expansive sofa. My emotion melted away at my insides as I confined myself within my own thoughts.

Even through layers of left-around blankets, my skin felt cold to the touch as I failed to focus on any of the details beyond the nearby coffee table. Part of me desperately yearned to reach for my phone—to grant myself some escape from my overwhelming emotions. However, a louder half forced me to remain curled up on the sofa, shivering.

The passage of time slipped away from my thoughts. What was once a laser-focus on each passing second gave way to more pressing priorities. Could I really drive home in this condition? How long do I need to keep this secret from Laque? The logical part of my thoughts knew the frenzy of emotions held no reason to shake me to this level. It was an off-handed mention, he wasn’t talking about me. Nonetheless, the simple realization wasn’t enough to break through the fog.

Suddenly, I felt a warm grasp on both of my hands. As my fingers curled around each hand, I haphazardly looked up to see Danilo standing right in front of me. While my focus would swiftly snap to his yellow eyes, I slowly sat up on the couch with my grasp tightening around his hands.

“That bad?” he questioned, “I know what he said—I didn’t think it was that bad. But, I can’t really dismiss it. Are you okay?”

I barely managed to push out any verbal response to him. Before I could try at a second attempt, Danilo lifted one of his hands off from my grasp. His freed hand pulls the blanket around my head off to my shoulders to reveal my frayed hair. With gently strokes, he softly combs through my hair without breaking his attention.

“I have to go to work, but if you really don’t want to stay any longer, just say you have to leave to grab my missing bag from the house for me. Is there anything you need?”

Danilo’s words were a softer in tone than they were at the dinner table. I’ve already recognized why, yet his quietened voice hadn’t lost its charm. With a tight pull, I wrap both of my arms around his body while pressing my exposed face against his clothes.

“Don’t go,” I squeaked out, “Please.”

“I wish…” Danilo slowly stepped away as his hands returned to his side. “I’ll try and get home as soon as possible, okay? Sorry lunch turned out like this.”

As I accepted Danilo’s departure, I gave a small wave goodbye as he left up the stairs. After he left, I kept my attention to the closed door at the top of the stairs. What good was there but to stare? Eventually, I followed suit to return back to Laque. I felt better, no doubt. Even for a short moment, the brief time I spent with Danilo was enough to revitalize me for just a little bit longer.

[soft-humming-moon]

ADDENDUM: AFTERMATH

It took me a few days. If anything, one part of the process was the ample amount of questions I had. While I was fine with the consequences of protecting the load-bearing resident of this town, I was still left confused and intrigued.

Once Dani calmed down enough, I was able to ask her a few questions regarding the information while I was unwinding from another day of work. “So, did Laque know about this beforehand?”

“Laque?” Dani questioned with intrigue. She would reveal her head from her room with her hands resting on the frame. “You’re the first person I’ve told about this…”

“Curse?”

“Yeah, but don’t call it that. I don’t like thinking this whole werefox thing is a curse.”

“Isn’t it a werewolf?”

“No—completely different. One’s a fox and one’s a wolf.”

“But they’re both canines.”

“Well, yeah. But that’s not really an excuse to lump them both together. Apples and oranges are both fruits, but they’re still different in taste and looks.”

“I guess so.”

Dani slowly rescinds back into her room as she inaudibly mumbles to herself.

“So would it be better to think of you as a pet in this roommate-situation or another resident.”

“What?!”

The question was enough for Dani to return back to her peering position on the door frame. Though, this time, she was a lot more agitated than before. Yet, I continued to speak, “I don’t know—feels like I need to accommodate for the information somewhat.”

“Like how?!”

“I mean, the meat-part’s covered. You’re practically potty-trained. Do I need to get you chipped just in case you run off? Do you still think like us; do I need to dumb things down? Will you suddenly get distracted when you see a chicken?”

“Do you hear yourself?! No! Nothing’s changing! I don’t need to get chipped. I’m just like everyone else. And I’ve never been distracted with a live chicken!”

“Wait, is the reason you get all pouty sometimes is because you’re holed up in the house most of the time? Do you want me to take you on walks?”

“You’re still not thinking of me as a normal person!”

“Right, sorry.”

Eventually, the air of hostility would die down as I returned back to the idle show on the television. Dani retreated back into her room as she shuts and locks the door behind her. I didn’t hear much back from her for a while.

A few minutes later, she would hastily swing her door open while darting directly towards me. Part of me flinched as she reached her hand over, but none of me expected her to grab my hand. With a strong yank, she pulls me off of the couch while grumpily giving me orders, “We’re going on a walk now, and I don’t care if you get tired.”

At first I was taken aback, but eventually I would accept the demand while walking over to my jacket hanging near the front door. “You could’ve just asked for something like this, but sure.”

THE SUMMARY OF DANI TORIMOSA

Work was exhausting. Every weekday starts before the sun rises and ends just as the natural light of the world fades upon the city. Most of my hours bleed away within the confines of a wholesale warehouse where I move boxes and direct customers and retailers alike. Nothing new happens within the scaffold-like walls, and sometimes I like it this way.

Personally, there’s a sort of satisfaction I get from the long hours. While my lineage prides itself on the inheritance of their hardly-working ancestors, I’ve broken that in a plea for satisfaction. Don’t get me wrong—I haven’t shunned myself from their generosity. I’d much rather gather my worth as a man by my own hands than what was provided to me. However, my name, Danilo, remains a part of me granted by my heritage.

Normal—love this town. Everyone here prides themselves on the extraordinary fact that nothing differs in this town. Once, this town was named Celeste—based on the founder of the city. Of course, this recently changed in favor of a surprisingly active tourism scene. Traps and attractions all surrounding the novelty of normality sell themselves as a getaway to the towns around them. I mean, I can’t blame them. Where else would I go to get away from it all when there’s a federal-enforced barricade around the Penumbran Strip.

The roads are packed most of the time. I remember nearly fifteen years ago when the roads were newly paved with asphalt. The procedure was slow and methodical. My father once told me about a time in the town’s history when dirt roads snaked through the town to small grocery stores and underfunded amenities. Now, this place is different. Sometimes I envy my father for living in his time. Yet, it’s hard to place if my envy is on a cause of these roads or for something greater.

I hear an onslaught of chatter among coworkers and customers alike in my hours. Some customers drive all the way to Normal due to the price of the goods. Why spend your money in a grocery store barely surviving against the town’s mandated horror than to spend it in bulk in a town known for its relative paradise? This process of thought feels rational, yet I can’t help but shake the thought of inevitable instability. At what point will this town remain as the only habitable location?

I can relate to the pride the residents share with this town. Imagine waking up one day and learning the rest of the now-called “Strip” was affected with this mysterious affliction—and you weren’t. You would assume you just won the lottery. Fate and divine alike marked an unfathomable amount of men to a newly created Hell in America and here you are—a blindspot in its wrath. At the end of the day, all of this clamoring reduces itself to a game of superiority. “Fate favors the wealthy”; a phrase which many men place upon this town. God bless it.

This town has yet to be hit by the suburban plague. The lack of an infrastructure and a desire has left most of the towns within the strip as immune. Yet, plagues mutate. Idle conversations and local news segments discuss the benefit of suburban neighborhoods. We have the budget—they state—we can support a project like this. I can’t wait to imagine how they pull it off.

In the meantime, I’ll spend the foreseeable future in my small one-story house nestled in the haphazard sprawl of individualized homes. The exterior is nothing to write home about—bland colored walls with windows closed off from the inside. A mailbox awaits at the edge of the concrete driveway, leading to a garage where I park my two-seater car within the protection of the elements. Once I shade my only vehicle within the garage, the bulky, metallic door slides down to hide it away from the sins of the world.

Waiting in the small fridge next to the entrance to my house is a set of carbonated beverages ready to grab from a brightly-colored box. With my canned drink in hand, I snap open the thin cover to release a swarm of bubbles to the top of my drink. I wasn’t expecting much to change with the house—why should it? But, there’s always a nagging feeling that something should change. The same routine of unwinding from a long day at work.

Yet, nothing would change. The house remains in one piece. I can hear the distant noise of the television’s broadcast from the living room all the way from the exit from the garage. If there’s any type of noise in the house, then my roommate, Dani, is asleep. The inverse to this observation is true, as well. With this information, you can infer how unsurprised I was when I found her asleep on the couch.

It’s hard to summarize who Dani is through a brief synopsis. Firstly, she’s my roommate. The summary could end there. However, there’s a lot more to her that provokes some further explanation. The reason she’s my roommate is through the efforts of my cousin, Laque. Those two have been friends ever since elementary school; they’ve been through thick and thin. When he proposed the idea to me, I never really understood where he was getting at. Out of all of the people, why me? Why not let her live in the mansion if you believe it so?

Of course, this was Laque. Sometimes, he has a hunch on certain ideas and insists it’ll work out in the end. I don’t think I’ve seen a premonition of his that hasn’t worked well. That, or he really wanted to see us get along well because of our similar names.

Secondly, Dani has an unusual connection to everything outside of this town. She’s developed a name for herself as a “persona”. Which, subjectively, I don’t particularly care about. If anything, I’m a little envious on how her prospects online pays better than my grueling full-time job. At some points, she’s offered to cover some of my expenses so I can work a part-time job. I’ve declined this, of course. It feels like she’s a projection of my family—some distant relative that’s still influenced by their arcane touch.

Thirdly, she has no sense of fashion or anything beyond basic hygiene. Thankfully, she showers often enough. From what I’ve last checked, her pointed teeth are whiter than my own. Her dirtied brown hair throws itself into a cacophony of shapes, yet it all remains unnaturally curly. All of her clothes are a mixture of white t-shirts, some sweatpants and an occasional jacket or two. From her minimalist wardrobe, there’s this style to her that would allow her to fit in to the slums of a metropolitan city.

Her favorite shirts—above all—are esoteric in-jokes involving unfathomable words. She tells me they’re all designed by her friends. It’s nice—I adore the charm—but it feels too “avant-garde” for me. Most of these shirts are covered by an orange hoodie whenever she goes outside, so I don’t believe most of the town sees the shirt’s displays.

Fourthly—and most distressing—Dani’s very touchy. If there was any indication of heritage, it would be her nonverbal body language. She always reaches over for hugs when she’s happy. She always wants a high-five for something that excites her. It’s strange, really. I’ve hailed from a family where contact between each other was kept for situations where it couldn’t be avoided. With her, it’s a completely different approach.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate how she displays herself. It’s always an aspect of her that catches me off guard. Over the time we’ve spent together as roommates, we’ve kind of bonded together more of friends if anything. She always indulges about her life with me—what she does and the history behind it all. Admittedly, I don’t have much to share back. It’s nice to sit down and listen, though. I’ve grown to enjoy the simple act of mildly caring for her. Not in a familial way, but something that draws compassion from somewhere I never knew was there to begin with.

When she first moved in, I was a little concerned with the adamant usage of blackout curtains. Every window in the house has a set of its own, and she always draws them shut around 4 pm. She told me I could open them whenever I wanted, but she couldn’t be in the same room.

Over the years, these little things compounded on themselves in a noticeable pattern. The next idea that struck me odd was her sharp teeth. Once, we were both in the bathroom cleaning it out and she briefly stopped to check her teeth in the mirror. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. Though this small detail slightly compounded.

Eventually, I realized how much she cared about eating meat. Dani had these specific preferences towards individualized brands, and there’d never be a deficit of any sort no matter the time of day. Alongside this, she always sleeps in her bed in a curled-up position. Obviously, the television inside her room would play a documentary of various subjects to keep her asleep.

It all compounded—the distaste for the night, the limited social gatherings, among others. Personally, I didn’t care. I’d be an ass of a person if I disliked how a functional adult lived their life. Over the months, I’ve debated with myself if I should even confront her about it. Especially now, she was very secretive about her external life. In contrast to her tendency to divulge every last detail of herself, it was the complete opposite when she first moved in.

One night, while we were both situated on the couch in the living room, I found myself unable to keep my eyes open while watching a familiar rerun of one of our favorite cartoons. As I sat myself up from the couch and yawned, I could hear Dani stuttering with her words for a little bit before sitting me down.

She disclosed the fact that she’s been meaning to tell me something for months. Dani planned out all of the reactions to what she was about to say—with her tidied bags, I admittedly thought she was going to move out soon and this was the heads up. But, she would bring up a question which completely blindsided me, “Do you know how each town has its own curse?”

I remember how puzzled I was at the question. Over the next minute, I thought of all of the curses each town had and how our town—Normal—was devoid of it. Within her shaking body and pre-planned words, Dani spoke about how she was the curse and how no one else in the town ever knew about it. The sharp teeth, hatred for the night, the fixation on meat—I was surprised how I didn’t catch on earlier. Fifthly, she was a werewolf.

In the moment, the information was a lot for me to process. While it had certainly replaced my views on this town and its stature, it would slowly dawn on me how significant the concealment of her secret would be. What if the town knew? They’d certainly ostracize her. Or worse, kill her. The damage she could cause on the town’s reputation was a palpable feeling, and it was clearly something on her mind behind her warm tears.

I couldn’t find myself sleeping that night. The next morning, I crammed as many caffeinated beverages within my system as my body could allow. But, throughout the night, I stayed awake to comfort Dani. With a blanket wrapped around her body and a box of tissues nearby, I could only assume this was what Laque meant when he wanted us to live together.

[soft-humming-moon]

THE SUMMARY OF DANI TORIMOSA

Work was exhausting. Every weekday starts before the sun rises and ends just as the natural light of the world fades upon the city. Most of my hours bleed away within the confines of a wholesale warehouse where I move boxes and direct customers and retailers alike. Nothing new happens within the scaffold-like walls, and sometimes I like it this way.

Personally, there’s a sort of satisfaction I get from the long hours. While my lineage prides itself on the inheritance of their hardly-working ancestors, I’ve broken that in a plea for satisfaction. Don’t get me wrong—I haven’t shunned myself from their generosity. I’d much rather gather my worth as a man by my own hands than what was provided to me. However, my name, Danilo, remains a part of me granted by my heritage.

Normal—love this town. Everyone here prides themselves on the extraordinary fact that nothing differs in this town. Once, this town was named Celeste—based on the founder of the city. Of course, this recently changed in favor of a surprisingly active tourism scene. Traps and attractions all surrounding the novelty of normality sell themselves as a getaway to the towns around them. I mean, I can’t blame them. Where else would I go to get away from it all when there’s a federal-enforced barricade around the Penumbran Strip.

The roads are packed most of the time. I remember nearly fifteen years ago when the roads were newly paved with asphalt. The procedure was slow and methodical. My father once told me about a time in the town’s history when dirt roads snaked through the town to small grocery stores and underfunded amenities. Now, this place is different. Sometimes I envy my father for living in his time. Yet, it’s hard to place if my envy is on a cause of these roads or for something greater.

I hear an onslaught of chatter among coworkers and customers alike in my hours. Some customers drive all the way to Normal due to the price of the goods. Why spend your money in a grocery store barely surviving against the town’s mandated horror than to spend it in bulk in a town known for its relative paradise? This process of thought feels rational, yet I can’t help but shake the thought of inevitable instability. At what point will this town remain as the only habitable location?

I can relate to the pride the residents share with this town. Imagine waking up one day and learning the rest of the now-called “Strip” was affected with this mysterious affliction—and you weren’t. You would assume you just won the lottery. Fate and divine alike marked an unfathomable amount of men to a newly created Hell in America and here you are—a blindspot in its wrath. At the end of the day, all of this clamoring reduces itself to a game of superiority. “Fate favors the wealthy”; a phrase which many men place upon this town. God bless it.

This town has yet to be hit by the suburban plague. The lack of an infrastructure and a desire has left most of the towns within the strip as immune. Yet, plagues mutate. Idle conversations and local news segments discuss the benefit of suburban neighborhoods. We have the budget—they state—we can support a project like this. I can’t wait to imagine how they pull it off.

In the meantime, I’ll spend the foreseeable future in my small one-story house nestled in the haphazard sprawl of individualized homes. The exterior is nothing to write home about—bland colored walls with windows closed off from the inside. A mailbox awaits at the edge of the concrete driveway, leading to a garage where I park my two-seater car within the protection of the elements. Once I shade my only vehicle within the garage, the bulky, metallic door slides down to hide it away from the sins of the world.

Waiting in the small fridge next to the entrance to my house is a set of carbonated beverages ready to grab from a brightly-colored box. With my canned drink in hand, I snap open the thin cover to release a swarm of bubbles to the top of my drink. I wasn’t expecting much to change with the house—why should it? But, there’s always a nagging feeling that something should change. The same routine of unwinding from a long day at work.

Yet, nothing would change. The house remains in one piece. I can hear the distant noise of the television’s broadcast from the living room all the way from the exit from the garage. If there’s any type of noise in the house, then my roommate, Dani, is asleep. The inverse to this observation is true, as well. With this information, you can infer how unsurprised I was when I found her asleep on the couch.

It’s hard to summarize who Dani is through a brief synopsis. Firstly, she’s my roommate. The summary could end there. However, there’s a lot more to her that provokes some further explanation. The reason she’s my roommate is through the efforts of my cousin, Laque. Those two have been friends ever since elementary school; they’ve been through thick and thin. When he proposed the idea to me, I never really understood where he was getting at. Out of all of the people, why me? Why not let her live in the mansion if you believe it so?

Of course, this was Laque. Sometimes, he has a hunch on certain ideas and insists it’ll work out in the end. I don’t think I’ve seen a premonition of his that hasn’t worked well. That, or he really wanted to see us get along well because of our similar names.

Secondly, Dani has an unusual connection to everything outside of this town. She’s developed a name for herself as a “persona”. Which, subjectively, I don’t particularly care about. If anything, I’m a little envious on how her prospects online pays better than my grueling full-time job. At some points, she’s offered to cover some of my expenses so I can work a part-time job. I’ve declined this, of course. It feels like she’s a projection of my family—some distant relative that’s still influenced by their arcane touch.

Thirdly, she has no sense of fashion or anything beyond basic hygiene. Thankfully, she showers often enough. From what I’ve last checked, her pointed teeth are whiter than my own. Her dirtied brown hair throws itself into a cacophony of shapes, yet it all remains unnaturally curly. All of her clothes are a mixture of white t-shirts, some sweatpants and an occasional jacket or two. From her minimalist wardrobe, there’s this style to her that would allow her to fit in to the slums of a metropolitan city.

Her favorite shirts—above all—are esoteric in-jokes involving unfathomable words. She tells me they’re all designed by her friends. It’s nice—I adore the charm—but it feels too “avant-garde” for me. Most of these shirts are covered by an orange hoodie whenever she goes outside, so I don’t believe most of the town sees the shirt’s displays.

Fourthly—and most distressing—Dani’s very touchy. If there was any indication of heritage, it would be her nonverbal body language. She always reaches over for hugs when she’s happy. She always wants a high-five for something that excites her. It’s strange, really. I’ve hailed from a family where contact between each other was kept for situations where it couldn’t be avoided. With her, it’s a completely different approach.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate how she displays herself. It’s always an aspect of her that catches me off guard. Over the time we’ve spent together as roommates, we’ve kind of bonded together more of friends if anything. She always indulges about her life with me—what she does and the history behind it all. Admittedly, I don’t have much to share back. It’s nice to sit down and listen, though. I’ve grown to enjoy the simple act of mildly caring for her. Not in a familial way, but something that draws compassion from somewhere I never knew was there to begin with.

When she first moved in, I was a little concerned with the adamant usage of blackout curtains. Every window in the house has a set of its own, and she always draws them shut around 4 pm. She told me I could open them whenever I wanted, but she couldn’t be in the same room.

Over the years, these little things compounded on themselves in a noticeable pattern. The next idea that struck me odd was her sharp teeth. Once, we were both in the bathroom cleaning it out and she briefly stopped to check her teeth in the mirror. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. Though this small detail slightly compounded.

Eventually, I realized how much she cared about eating meat. Dani had these specific preferences towards individualized brands, and there’d never be a deficit of any sort no matter the time of day. Alongside this, she always sleeps in her bed in a curled-up position. Obviously, the television inside her room would play a documentary of various subjects to keep her asleep.

It all compounded—the distaste for the night, the limited social gatherings, among others. Personally, I didn’t care. I’d be an ass of a person if I disliked how a functional adult lived their life. Over the months, I’ve debated with myself if I should even confront her about it. Especially now, she was very secretive about her external life. In contrast to her tendency to divulge every last detail of herself, it was the complete opposite when she first moved in.

One night, while we were both situated on the couch in the living room, I found myself unable to keep my eyes open while watching a familiar rerun of one of our favorite cartoons. As I sat myself up from the couch and yawned, I could hear Dani stuttering with her words for a little bit before sitting me down.

She disclosed the fact that she’s been meaning to tell me something for months. Dani planned out all of the reactions to what she was about to say—with her tidied bags, I admittedly thought she was going to move out soon and this was the heads up. But, she would bring up a question which completely blindsided me, “Do you know how each town has its own curse?”

I remember how puzzled I was at the question. Over the next minute, I thought of all of the curses each town had and how our town—Normal—was devoid of it. Within her shaking body and pre-planned words, Dani spoke about how she was the curse and how no one else in the town ever knew about it. The sharp teeth, hatred for the night, the fixation on meat—I was surprised how I didn’t catch on earlier. Fifthly, she was a werewolf.

In the moment, the information was a lot for me to process. While it had certainly replaced my views on this town and its stature, it would slowly dawn on me how significant the concealment of her secret would be. What if the town knew? They’d certainly ostracize her. Or worse, kill her. The damage she could cause on the town’s reputation was a palpable feeling, and it was clearly something on her mind behind her warm tears.

I couldn’t find myself sleeping that night. The next morning, I crammed as many caffeinated beverages within my system as my body could allow. But, throughout the night, I stayed awake to comfort Dani. With a blanket wrapped around her body and a box of tissues nearby, I could only assume this was what Laque meant when he wanted us to live together.

[soft-humming-moon]

HAPPY NORMAL NEW YEAR

The night sky blinked with multicolored sparks, raining down its vibrant lights with a trail of smoke to follow. Chaotic bursts of noise scattered themselves among the plentiful stars—a distant cousin briefly staying in their celestial family’s residence. As these sparks fought for dominance against the dark clouds and chipped moon, they reigned supreme across the night sky.

December 31st, 20XX. The year of the animal was just around the corner. The final grains of sand slid through the top half of the hourglass. Twenty minutes of impending change. All of the houses illuminated their vibrant lights as the asphalts of the neighborhood streets were alight to the festive spirit contained within these houses.

Nested in the suburban sprawls of Normal was a chateau which reigned upon the upper middle class. Gates with a gem resembling a family crest locked the ordinary man from the loudest party in the city. Partygoers from around the Penumbran Strip gathered to celebrate the end of a simple era and to welcome in the joys of new beginnings.

And where was I among all this? Sat in the bustling mansion tucked away in the quietest spot of them all. A maid’s closet—that’s what I assume, anyway. Moments prior I stole a handful of unopened bottles of wine from the never-ending snack table placed in the foyer. What was a hassle for me was nothing more of a margin of error for the host.

Laque, the host. It’s not that I desire him, I cherish him as a friend. Sometimes, however, I don’t know when to say no. Every year, I find myself accepting an invitation to the largest party in the Strip. And for each party, I’m always within the closet kept to my own devices. I understand why he invites me—we’ve known each other for so long. In comparison to even the poorest guests, I reside as a stark outlier.

The taste of alcohol was present with each swig. Before, I would steal an equal amount of soda to held the taste. Now, I simply don’t care to hide the taste. It’s what I deserve—my punishment. Why trap yourself in the grandest social event in the area. Stepping outside was a dangerous game considering how glass windows stripped any and all privacy of the chateau’s interior.

The light in here was good enough. A fluorescent bulb kept overhang with a thin chain as a switch. This is as best as it gets, sometimes. I’ve nestled a blanket and pillow in here, sometimes. Somehow, it remains within the closet even after a full year. I highly doubt people check this closet. It’s just an extra room blind to the experienced workers of the manor.

And then, there was a set of knocks. My heart immediately jumped out of my chest as my hands scrambled to hide the alcohol among the cleaning supplies. Despite this, the door slowly creaks open to reveal a man staring down at me. It wasn’t just any man, no. With his recognizable yellow eyes and shaggy, brown hair; I could recognize his face from across the manor if the circumstances allowed.

“You know,” he starts, “I’m not surprised this is where you hide off to for these parties. I kind of forgot you’re on good terms with Laque.” My hands were shaking. While my fingers tapped away on the edges of the nearby shelves, my mind was racing to find any amount of words to say. Once the sentence formed itself in my mind—a perfect retort—I shoddily released the string of words in a trembling voice, “What are you doing at Laque’s party?!”

“I’m his cousin, remember?” He taps against his temple with his index finger. “Danilo Toru? Laque Toru? I’m nowhere near the fortune, but he still remembers I exist. Unlike his parents.”

After fumbling my own words, I quickly swiped my hands to the pillow stowed away within the closet. As I buried my face within the luxuriously soft material, I contorted the muscles in my face to hold back any tears. I hoped—I prayed—that the noise would quiet down into its muffled state. I awaited the sweet silence to return back to me. To hell with the destructive thoughts, it’s all I know.

A hand firmly grasped against my shoulder beyond my senses. As the noise outside quietened down to its muffled state, the hand would adjust itself upon my tattered shirt. Just in front of my pillow, his voice would pierce through the soft material, “You’re not gonna hide under your pillow all night long, you know.”

I slowly lowered the pillow down toward my legs after giving myself a moment to compose myself. Without another moment, Danilo would reach his other hand to press against my remaining shoulder. Afterwards, I was able to gain a glimpse at how he was standing. Both of his knees were on the ground as the legs down acted as support. With both of his hands grasped against me, he was able to lean forward a considerable amount.

“One step at a time,” he remarked, “Are you planning to hole yourself up in this closet until the sun breaks or do you want me to drive you home?”

For a moment, my mind quickly panicked. My hands left their grasp against the pillow as they wrapped around the wrist of Danilo’s arms. My body desperately conveyed its decision paralysis while my mouth remained silent.

Danilo would softly laugh at my display as he moved each hand off of my shoulder. While my wrists were wrapped around tight, he could still balance with his leaning position. “I’ll take you home. It’s okay. You don’t have to talk. But, I need to do a few things first.”

Immediately, I was confused. As my emotions calmed down, I mustered what words I could out from my mouth to respond, “What do you mean? How can you have errands at a party?”

“Well, I want to see the countdown at least. Laque’s down at the basement with his brother at the mini-bar. I certainly want to talk to him before we leave, but there’s not a lot of people either. If you’re comfortable with it, you can probably speak with him too.”

I slowly nod while I continue to listen.

“There’s no windows down there—you won’t have any contact with the moonlight. After we see the countdown, then we can leave. Sound good?”

Silently, I give a weak thumbs up before I push against the ground to stand back up. With Danilo’s help, we both push ourselves off the ground of the maid’s closet. While we’re both standing, he reaches one arm around my shoulder to keep me close as the remaining hand opens the door out to the rest of the chateau.

“Come on,” he reassures me, “I’ll always be here if you need anything.”

[soft-humming-moon]

THE AUREVERSE SCRIBINGS // AN INTRODUCTION

"The Aureverse Scribings" is a blog dedicated to the works and literature to the Aureverse canon and any adjacent canons. The main purpose of this blog serves as a faux-archive of any of these works completed either within the year or before the creation of the project. The end goal is to entertain the habit of releasing any finished works of literature within the canon. layman's terms: im gonna post here as an exercise of releasing content semi-publicly

LIST OF CANONS

Detailed below is a list of the stories within the Aureverse and their tags (this will expand over time)

Apotheosis :: #79-apotheosis

The Golden Rule :: #79-the golden rule

Non-specific :: #n79-general

Penumbra AU :: #n79-penumbra

Personal works :: #n79-personal

SHORT SUMMARIES

Apotheosis // The exploration of an Apotheosized God and his role as the "observer" in the beginning. The Golden Rule // "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you"; The set of actions of the Apotheosized God in a now-failing multiverse. Penumbra AU // A playground of horror; every town holds its own monster.

ON GROWTH

The growth of this blog—both in fame and skill—is a negligent concern. Improvements in style, skill, and general writing will be dealt with on personal terms. The popularity of this blog will not be focused on.