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Chapter Text

There once was a child who was raised in a place she did not belong. She walked among those she did not fit in with. They spoke with family members who did not understand her. She found themself escaping from the crushing presence of a smothering society, taking comfort in the smoothest steel swords and the sharpest of weapons. They spent more time with unliving things that did not breathe nor speak nor feel than she did with her own kin, their family-by-blood, their Ya’eph.

They were her people, but she was not of them. They were their bloodline, but she did not feel the same emotions they did. They were her inheritance, but they chose not to accept it.

The child lived among people she saw as stone-like beings, for stone was cold and heartless and unmoving. It was not like steel, who saw all things with bright eyes and brought quick and painless death. Stone was a brutal, slow, painful weapon to use. Swords of iron were merciless and yet gentler than such crude things as rocks and pebbles. Much could be said of this child, who spent time among her stone-like people, all the while made of iron.

For these people were the Sheith’ora, the children of the Great God Kinaxus, the Godkillers. They were mortals, flesh-and-blood the same as any of us, able to be killed as well as kill, for that is what they did. They were born to hunt the deities they saw as a plague upon the Worlds. They served the will of only one god, the Primordial Kinaxus, who was their ancestor and the only deity they let live. All others were living on borrowed time. Every child and youngling in this society was trained from the youngest of ages to be killers, taught to Husk the gods and to eradicate them from the Worlds. Few got the chance to ever leave the Otherworld to hunt a deity- it was a rare assignment, a privilege, an honor.

And so it was strange for such an honor to be given to the person that child grew up to be.

Their name was Chaos. She spent her days training when they should have been sleeping, praying to Kinaxus when they should have been studying, content to have their lifegoal to become a guard at the Shrine of Kinaxus, the Ath’hala. She did not dream of killing gods. They did not lie awake at night, imagining the golden blood of Fable or the cobalt blood of Vorago pooling in front of them, staining their weapon as she raised it, victoriously, to the heavens in honor of her deity. She spent more time by the Ath’hala, head bowed in reverent silence before the flashing gilded flames, the priestesses greeting them in a friendly fashion, for they became a familiar face to them.

And yet, for reasons unknown, the slaying of Epros, a PRIMORDIAL, the highest honor of all, the greatest of gods other than Kinaxus, the partner to the God of Energy in creating all things, the eldritch being of shadow and void and matter, the killing of a god greater than any slain before-

It fell to the eclectic, creative, all-too-emotional Sheith’ora who was in the sparring arena more than the library.

Chaos did not mind the position, no matter the fact that it would mess with their plans of being a temple guard. To Husk a god was something that could skyrocket a Sheith’ora’s fame, let alone to Husk a Primordial. It would earn Chaos respect and nobility amongst the ranks of the Sheith’ora, perhaps even an immediate position as Shu’taela in the shrine guard.

And that is why, on the first Whitemist of Lightfade, the High Priestess delivered the assignment from the Hearth of the Ath’hala, and the newest chapter of their life began. The end of the story for the Sheith’ora, the beginning of the tale of Chaos Eprosidin.

The Godkiller had left that night, after being purified at the Ath’hala, supplied well, and left to find the location of and to kill a Primordial being not seen in over three centuries. They had taken the middle of the three Gateways that existed in the Otherworld, one that placed her in the furthest reaches of Aethercadena. They had spent nearly a month trekking through the blizzards and snows, unbothered by the cold, for their own homeland was a frigid, misty place where the sun rarely reached through the clouds of fog and Mist. The tracking of a god was not an easy thing- it required a perfect sense of clarity, undistracted by anything else. This was the reason Sheith’ora prized emotional apathy over all else. Emotions were a distraction, something which tugged on the mind and broke the concentration necessary to find a deity.

Yet another strange reason why Chaos was chosen. They did not possess that perfection that was apathy. They did not follow the rules and guidelines as closely as the other Sheith’ora did. Whereas others preferred to follow what they were taught to the letter, never straying from what had been done before, choosing tried-and-true over fresh-and-new, traditional over creative, old over new. Chaos, on the other hand, did not. She found focusing difficult when not in the midst of a battle or a sparring session. She was… distractable, easily swayed or caught off guard, their attention fleeting from one thing to the next like a leaf in the midst of a Brightblossom-swelled stream, dipping and bobbing before being swept over the edge of one of the numerous plunging waterfalls that dotted all over the floating islands that hovered above their homeland.

Chaos found this… Overworld, as it was called, such a strange thing, so very different from their own home, the Otherworld. Whereas the Overworld was massive, sprawling, and covered with many different biomes and climates, the Otherworld was… not. It was a beautiful world, full of mountains and wide grasslands. Thick fogs and Mists covered the entirety of the land, shrouding it in protection and secrecy, hiding them. Protecting them. Giving them the gifts of stealth and quiet growth. It was overshadowed by the occasional floating island, a chunk of grass-and-rock hovering midair, usually with cascading waterfalls flooding off of the edges and crashing into the ground below. These islands were the gifts of Kinaxus to their descendants, as were the three ‘Gateways’ that lay at the heart of the Otherworld. They were folds in space, doorways to the Overworld. The last thing Epros ever helped Kinaxus create.

Every Sheith’ora knew the story of the twin Primordials, Kinaxus and Epros. They were the beginning of all things, rivaling and yet matching forces of pure power. Kinaxus was the personification of Energy, of Force, and of Light. They were a warm, welcoming deity, a deity whose arms were always open to their children, the Godkillers. Kinaxus was the one who convinced Epros to create the humans in the first place. It was them who had given them the gifts of fire and taught them to farm. It was Kinaxus who had turned special attention to creating the Sheith’ora, the god’s children. Direct descendants, protectors of the Deity of Energy, sworn to hunt down threats and to bring justice to the world, for deities were not blameless beings. Kinaxus had formed the Otherworld with their own hands, made each thing with intention and with care. When their work was completed, Kinaxus resigned to the sky to watch their creations, providing light and heat in the form of the Sun.

Epros, on the other hand, was not a warm creature. They were the deity of the Void, Darkness, and Matter. Void was as cold as Kinaxus was warm-hearted, an icy deity fueled by hatred and bitterness. They were reluctant to bring any life into the world at all. They hated the idea of more beings in the world, wanting to be alone and in silent solitude for the rest of time. Sheith’ora legend has it that Kinaxus made an offering that Epros could not refuse, a deal so great the void deity had to accept. And so, the gods were born. While Kinaxus gave them the emotions of love and happiness and hope and even anger, all bright, powerful, fiery emotions, Epros gave them darker emotions, feelings such as dread, hopelessness, fear, depression, sadness, and peace. Void crafted such emotions in their own image, giving humans the desperate need for solitude sometimes, the same overwhelming feeling that Epros themself craved.

And while Kinaxus disappeared to watch over the Sheith’ora, Epros left the societies of mankind, vanishing into the coldest and most lonely part of Aethecadena, the snow-washed land formerly ruled by Alerion, the god of Space and Ice. For years, Epros was left to void’s own devices, and in that time, Kinaxus began to wonder and fear what their counterpart might be able to create on their own.

And so, a Godkiller was sent.

After a month of searching, of trying to calm their chaotic mind of distractions in an attempt to sense the god’s presence, Chaos felt the softest whisper of an aura from a small cave at the foot of a tower mountain. She plunged into the cave, spiraling deeper and deeper underground, passing from one shadowed cavern to the next through thin tunnels and tight crevices. Many a time, they lost their way, sitting in a small space in pitch-darkness, struggling to manage their breathing, desperate to feel the touch of the aura again, trying to guide herself. The closer she came to the Primordial, the stronger the effect became. The smothering feeling of hopelessness, loneliness, fear, and confusion that clouded her mind, the awareness of just how small the space was, of how dark it was, of how her eyes strained into the darkness, desperately searching for some strain of light. The pull of the aura drained Chaos, trying to drag them down into an eternal sleep.

And there was the Primordial.

Oh, to describe the terror-causing, awe-inspiring appearance of Epros, of any Primordial, in fact. It is such a hard thing to do, to explain what and how the gods appear. The few who ever set eyes on them find words fleeting and few, contradicting and confusing. May the gods strike me down if I ever try to do such a thing as describe the deities. Even as I come close to one myself, I cannot, should not, will not attempt such things. They are beyond me, even as I am beyond them. Somethings are better left undefined and undescribed.

Chaos fought Epros for a time- how long, she did not know. The aura of the god had strange effects on their perception of time, warping seconds into days, hours into minutes, weeks into mere moments. Adrenaline chased away sleep, the waves of energy driving off thirst and staving hunger. A shadowed tendril to parry a flashing silver knife, a flicker of darkness to dodge a kick to the head. A deadly dance, a display of lethal grace and quick instincts. Backs pressed against stone walls, hisses of pain or anger in the dark as the two battled back and forth, the upper hand changing like the tides of the ocean.

Eventually, Epros slipped up, making the tiniest of mistakes, and Chaos took advantage of the opportunity, disarming them and Husking them before void had a chance to recover. The ripples from Chaos ripping their power from them sent ripples like never before throughout the universe, alerting every god to what had happened. In an instant, it was a thought the entire world held its breath, waiting for something… anything… to happen. Something as retribution for the Husking. Chaos did not notice. Triumphant from the victory and exhausted from what had transpired, they made their way to the surface, not knowing what was about to happen.

Something happened indeed. Retribution, if one could call the massacre of an entire civilization revenge. Gods poured through the Gateways like moths to candle flames, glowing with power and seething with righteous anger at the death of their Ancestor. For, indeed, the Husking of a Primordial was a serious thing, especially unprovoked as this had been. Gods were used to Sheith’ora killing deities- it was their duty. It thinned the competition, whittled the ranks of gods down before it could overwhelm the world. But to simply hunt down a Primordial being with no real cause… that was taboo. And that required vengeance.

And so, Chaos arrived back through the Gateway, expecting celebrations and honor and glory. Thronging masses wanting to hear about the journey. Family members and friends welcoming her home. Their old friends from the Ath’hala coming to say hello. Instead, she found an abandoned realm with only puddles of blood and a few select corpses around the place. The golden flames of the shrine gone cold. The Mists thicker than ever before. Everything still and sad and lonely and silent. Dust and Mist and blood. And death.

Chaos knelt at the foot of the Ath’hala, staring at the place where Kinaxus’s flames used to be. “Forgive me,” they whispered into the silence. “I was not here when you needed me. I betrayed my honor and my trust.” Only stillness met their ears. Time passed slowly, as though they were back in the presence of Epros. They knelt at that shrine for hours, trying to figure out the emptiness inside and what she could do about it.

It was the gods who had done this, she knew. It was the deities fault. They had come and massacred them all, every last one of them. It was all their fault. They had chosen this, they had chosen the death and the pain and the suffering.

And so would she, Chaos thought as they stood slowly, a sort of grim determination filling their heart. If the gods had played with fire, they should’ve expected to get burned. They chose death.

Chaos chose war.

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In the beginning, there was a God.

A god who smiled upon the world, a god who wanted what was best for those it created. This god prided themself in their work, in their creations, in the forms that came from their hands. The god spent time and love to carve each individual plant and animal and being on the world, smoothing it into shape, perfecting its appearance. They were the creator of my people, the Ancestor of us all. They made all humans, indeed, but we… we were special. We were the Sheith’ora, the direct descendants of this god, not just the work of their hands. We bowed to only them, to their loving embrace and their peaceful energy. We became Godkillers, those who lived and died in the name of this god.

A god capable of love. A god understanding enough to protect their children. A god who wasn’t a complete monster like the others that came after them. A god who was happy when the people they created were happy. A god who put humans, mortals first.

A god named Kinaxus.
And Kinaxus lived for a long time, happy and content with what they had done.

Until they were killed.

There are many ways a god can die.

People always get that wrong. They say, ‘They are immortal! They cannot die! They are gods, timeless and ageless and beautiful and not bound by mortal laws or rules!’ And, in a way, they are correct. There is, after all, a grain of truth in every statement, no matter how nonsensical or stupid it might be. Gods might not necessarily die in the sense that mortal creatures do, but they can die. They can be killed, decimated without a trace, gone from the faces of the realms without a whisper or a shadow of their former selves.

I should know.

My name is Chaos. I come from a land outside of time, a place where nothing humans do can affect us. I come from the lineage of the First One, that which can be traced back to the rule of our ancestor, the Primordial Creative Kinaxus.

And I have killed a god.

And if you are reading this, I am dead.

I hope I went out in a good way. I have decided already, years ago, back when I first began serious training as a Shieth’ora, a God-killer, that I did not desire to die in my sleep, or from a disease, or in any form of peaceful, domestic death. I want to die with a sword in my hand, armor on my body, blood that is not my own splattered against my face. Defending my people. Killing Kinaxus’s enemies. Victorious in both life and death. I can only hope that these dreams have been fulfilled, that if you are reading this, it was glorious.

This is my Logbook, my Eil’vith. Every Shieth’ora has one. It is the recording of my life, to be given to my family to be read by them and Kinaxus, should the event of my death occur. If I am not dead, then I plead that you close this Eil’vith now, that the sanctity of these words be preserved, and my honor retained. If I truly am dead, then I trust you are my family and my family alone.

What follows is a journal-like account of the travels of I, Chaos Eprosidin, taking place after the Scattering. I do not know if there will be anyone to read these words. I do not know if any of you still live. I can only hope.

And may the spirits of my people watch over my path as I travel. May they grant me vengeance in life and death. May they remember my name as the Sheith’ora who survived the Scattering, the one who finally fit their ideals of an apathetic, lethal Shieth’ora.

May Kinaxus bless our travels.

And may the war begin.

Chapter Text

Day 1
Overworlds
Black-Mist

And so, it begins.

I took the left Gateway this time, estimating my current location somewhere near Fableon. While I enjoy the idea of hunting Fable or his court, I find myself drawn elsewhere, specifically to hunting Perix, Anderian, and Haeihaei first, as they had connections to Epros, and something tells me they were one of the biggest parts of the Scattering. Plus, Haeihaei hasn’t been the same since Ion Husked Gamgibian a few years back. They were close friends, and since then, they haven’t been as stable or powerful as they used to be.

Which means easy hunting.

There’s a mountain range I can see in the distance. I’ll reach this evening, at least, and set my camp up there for the night while I try to sense an aura. How fitting that my hunting of Epros ended with a mountain, and this one will begin with one. The only difference is that time, I went beneath it. This time, the only way is up.

As for the shock of what happened… Well, if my anger is good for anything, it’s as a distraction. I’m holding onto it with everything in me. I will not let it fade, not while the blood of my people is still saturating the ground. Anger is the greatest of emotions. It’s a distraction, a fuel, a power source, something to drive me. And I think that’s a good thing, for it’s all I can feel right now. All I’m really letting myself feel, really. Everything else is just… numb. I know I should be feeling sadness or guilt or shame but… I don’t. It is like I know that this is partially my fault, but there’s nothing I can do about it apart from kill as many of the deities responsible.

I hope they’re ready.

I do like a good hunt.

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The light lancing through the trees in needle-sharp beams flashed like knives, gold and orange dancing amid the summer green leaves of the oaks and the darker hues of the pine trees. Drifts of dead amber-brown pine needles covered the ground as they walked, a few scraggly young trees daring to poke their heads out among the fallen leaves and dead branches that had crashed into the ground years ago, slowly decaying into dust.

Their boots kick up clouds of brightly colored dust as she walks, shining like gilded breath in the dying sunlight. A long, dark brown-green cloak brushes their feet, held in place by the leather strap of their backpack slung diagonally across their torso and leather bracers on their forearms. Her forest-green vest and pale undershirt are a sharper contrast to the dark colors of the rest of the outfit, aided by a thin, gauze-like green scarf around their neck, something so delicate it is nearly transparent and terribly out of place with the sturdier leather articles and cloak. A tarnished metal locket hangs from a chain around their neck, the worn coin-like pendant tucked protectively into her shirt. A pair of brown pouches are fastened around their black pants, a small bag with a dove-gray book hanging next to them.

As they walk, her eyes stray to the sides, warily checking for danger or movement. Her posture is rigidly relaxed, on guard, but not obviously. As though they knew there was a murderer in these woods, but on the other side and heading away from them. There is a light quality to their step as they walk, stirring as little leaves as possible as she moves, avoiding drier plants and dead sticks, sticking to the rocks that peak out from the forest floor.

There’s a haunted look in their eyes, a shadow in the chocolate-brown depths. It was the look that someone carries with them when they’ve seen death firsthand an rejected it with their whole being. She runs a hand through her tangled short brown hair. It used to be neater, as well as shorter, but a few weeks in the wild, hunting immortals would make anyone’s hair a bit unruly. Yet another way the recent times have changed them, only this time it’s physically instead of mentally or emotionally.

The sun sinks lower towards the horizon as they walk, never stopping, never slowing. The crunching of leaves and the cracking of sticks are the only noises in this strangely silent forest, as though every living thing in the entire world had disappeared, leaving a void of sound and noise. No animals stalked the woods, no plumaged birds leaped from branch to branch with sweet songs of better times. Thoughts swirled through their head, unstopped by distractions or memories.

Are you sure you can kill them? Is it justified? How do you plan on surviving, you poor, broken murderer? Surely, you don’t think you’re good enough to take on the world… do you, Chaos? Do you really thing, after all this time, you have what it takes to even get close to them? And when you do, if you kill them, what makes you better than them? They’re all criminals and murderers, right? …so then, Chaos Eprosidin, what is the difference between a god… and you?

Another step.

You don’t truly believe that killing all the gods would make the world a better place, do you? You don’t have the heart to even THINK about the repercussions your actions could have. If you killing a god got all those Sheith’ora killed… then what will happen when you kill ALL the gods? How many more people will die in your name, Child of Kinaxus? Just how far are you willing to go? How many lives are you willing to sacrifice?

“Isn’t any death in the name of justice and retribution a worthy death?” They ask out loud, trying to combat the intrusive, self-doubting thoughts that filter through her ears, a low, slithering growl through Chaos’s mind. “Surely, it is.”

Is that the truth, Chaos Eprosidin? Or is it just what you have been told?

“I don’t have the mental energy to deal with myself at the moment,” Chaos groaned, half to herself and half to the trees around them. They quickened their pace, spotting the edge of the tree line edging closer as the forest began to thin out, the bracken and undergrowth and flame-colored leaves giving way to pebbles and boulders and spindly growths of grass that peeked out between them.

They stood at the edge of a steep, towering mountain dusted with snow near the peak. The side closest to them was a landslide of rocks and thinner, flatter sheets of slate. A few hundred yards up, it changed, with a thin, sheer cliff-face emerging from the rocks at a forty-five-degree angle, wafer thin near the point but thickening up as it went. A second cliff-face started a few more yards up, the edge of that one connecting with the first one in a shadowed point. Beyond that, half the mountain dropped away in what was once an avalanche or a landslide, collapsed down into the rest of the forest. Beyond it, the other mountains in the range spanned onwards, stretching out like a crescent moon. The setting sun hung behind them, the last dying rays of light edging over the mountains and cliffs like gilded spears, slicing into the woods behind her.

With a sigh, Chaos slung their pack to the ground, sending leaves fluttering through the air, and surveyed the forest. An ancient-looking birch had toppled over some time ago, the branches tangling with those of another nearby tree, the trunks locked together in a lopsided ‘N’. Pushing on the two to test the stability, Chaos began to gather large branches, leaning them up against the fallen tree, layering bracken and ferns and leaves over it. It would be a small shelter, but they had lived in worse for longer. So long as the makeshift roof could keep the snow out, it was good enough for Chaos.

They sat underneath their shelter, leaning their head back against the tree, even though they knew they should keep moving. Always move. Never stay still, never give yourself time to think, never let your brain start talking. Never give yourself time to grieve, that’s how they would stay ahead of the sadness. That’s how they would survive. Don’t let yourself remember, and the memories can’t hurt you. They were just ghosts. Ignoring them would make them go away- and, hopefully, the pain from the memories as well.

And yet, her mind couldn’t help but flash back to all those times that Ion, Volt, Flare, and Havoc had made her smile, all the jokes they’d told, all the memories they’d shared, all the time they’d spent training. They were more of a family than Chaos’s actual blood-born family. Even their cold, calculating Per’anak, Carnage, who looked as though they’d never laughed once in their life, had been such a key part of Chaos’s life for so many years. And yet, the last time Chaos had seen them was their corpses splattered with blood, staring lifelessly into the Mists..

Chaos inhaled suddenly, her breath shaky. With a start, they realized that tears had begun to trickle over their face. “Stupid eyes,” she muttered, wiping them away with the back of her hand. “Stop leaking. I’m… I’m not even sad.” The tree bark was cool and rough beneath their head, the pale peels slowly curling away from the trunk as time aged onwards. The strange dark marks on the birch trees looked uncomfortably like eyes, a thousand sightless, unmoving eyes watching them.

Suddenly uncomfortably, they sat up swiftly, staring at the ground, unable to bear looking at the trunks, unwilling to continue meeting the lifeless gaze of those living things, incapable to shake the feeling of someone watching them. Flinging the dark blue blanket from their bedroll over her head, Chaos closed her eyes, focusing on her breaths, letting them come and go evenly, slower and slower until they felt their heartbeat slow and their mind calm. The prickling feeling subsided.

Through the silence and the still peace, the thought slowly wound its way into the Sheith’ora’s head that they should be hearing something- no, that they should be feeling something. An aura. This was the way that Godkillers tracked gods, this was the way they sensed the presence, the feelings that surrounded the deities like a cloud, a mist, if you would, the same Mists that were given off from the Gateways, the combined creations of Epros and Kinaxus, the essence of the Primordials, sentient and alive in a beautiful, playful, cresting way that would dance around them like pure shadows. And yet, there was no aura prickling across their consciousness like the path of the sun across the sky, no breath of a god in their mind. True, Chaos had always found it hard to sense gods and their auras, but tracking Epros had improved this particular skill, among others.

So, how very strange it was that there was not a single hint of anything at all, no matter how distant.

Chaos took the blanket off of their head, closed their eyes, and purposefully tried this time. She wasn’t entirely sure exactly what they did, but she had some vague understanding, or, rather, a feeling, that it had to do with the void that surrounded all things. The void existed on another realm of reality, a second layer overlayed on top of the physical one. It was in this void that all deities had at least some part of themselves in, like a glowing beacon of light in frosty shadow-tipped waves. It was from this void that Kinaxus and Epros had shaped the world, had crafted it to their liking. It was in this void that the essence of the gods, their powers and energies, existed, thus how Husking was able to kill them. The void was also how the other gods had known that Epros had died, how they had felt the passing of the Primordial. Killing a god caused a ripple through this void, like dropping a stone into a lake.

It was Chaos’s working theory that normal, mortal humans existed only in the physical world, that they could not, for the most part, touch or sense the void beneath. That was how Sheith’ora knew what they were feeling was not the aura of a human, for they did have auras, however faint and weak they were. Unlike the mortals, Sheith’ora existed with part of themselves in the void, which was why Husking, tracking, and ripple-sensing worked with them. Gods, on the other hand, existed primarily in the void, with a mainly physical form in the real world. Their power, however, was stored in the void, although it could be accessed by deities should they need it.

Seeking a god involved a Godkiller sliding their consciousness into the void, shifting their being from the real world and into the other plane of existence. It left them vulnerable as their entire focus had to be in the void, sensing, searching, seeking, meaning any attacks or surprises would be unknown. Chaos gripped the sheath of their sword in one hand and the hilt in their other, wanting to be able to use it in a moments notice. Slowly, they took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and reached.

It was such a strange feeling, being in the void. It was the complete absence of anything, nothing and something and everything all at the same time, light and shadow and heat and cold and fire and ice and sunlight and the cold embrace of a new moon all rolled into one, an abyss of sensations and the lack thereof, perfect and incomplete, ends and beginnings and middles and befores and afters. So much and so little- and it came with a… a feeling, a feeling like one’s being was being peeled away layer by layer the longer it spent in that confusing, chaotic place. It left her feeling hollow and soulless, as though they were just an empty shell, like a Husked deity trying to enter their physical body once more.

And yet, despite all those sensations and emotions and feelings, there was no cool touch of an aura. It was as though everything in there was gone. Blocked. An icy mental metal wall that had completely encircled her, leaving her with the strange impression of… nothingness. There was absolutely nothing out there. No auras. No gods. No energies. Just… silence. Stillness. As though the void had completely got quiet. Chaos stood up, frustrated, feeling the need to pace. Why? What had changed? What was wrong? Why was she unable to feel any of the auras? There should be at least some, no matter how faint or distant they were. So why were there none?

Irritated and confused, Chaos pulled out her flint and steel, flashing sparks onto the pile of dry sticks and branches she had made on a relatively flat rock, careful not to set the flame-colored leaves that covered the ground in a sprawling carpet of crunching colors like fireflies. Setting things on fire did, actually, make her feel better, but only slightly. Perhaps the more fires she set, the more therapeutic it was, although Chaos also did not feel like roasting herself alive accidentally by creating a forest fire. With the dryness of the crackly leaves and the ancient trunks, it wasn’t to hard to tell that a single fleeting ember could turn the entire world alight with blazing cinders and ashes, a tempest of flame and fire, a storm of blisters and burns and blazes. For a moment, she was tempted, tempted to let the forest spark, just to stop the memories and the flashbacks, even if they knew what they had to do.

Was life worth living on after everyone else was gone? Was this the legacy of the Sheith’ora? A timeless existence, untouched by sickness or death? An unending continuation of the suffering that they had to experience? An eternal lifetime of guilt? An infinite stretch of knowing what they had done and what they had experienced and having to continue onwards? What was life, after you had felt the dying heartbeats of your family fade beneath your fingertips? What was this meaningless reality, after having been soaked in the blood of those you knew and loved? After you had seen the light fade from their eyes? After you had watched their bodies turn cold and lifeless? What was the use of it all? Why did some life and some die? Why was Chaos still here? What did they have left in their life?

Revenge? A chance to make things right? A chance to claim retribution? To repay what was lost in spilled blood and ichor? To rid the world of the criminals masquerading as deities? Was that it? Was that all they were good for?

The Godkiller stared into the flames, feeling a bottomless pit of shame and dread and hopelessness fill their heart. Everything in life had to end- including the gods. So why, why did she just want to lay down and let the earth reclaim her? Why did they want to never move again, to simply let the deity she had placed so much faith in turn them to stone with the rising moon? If this was her legacy, her inheritance, did she not have to carry it? Did she not have to see it through? They were Chaos Eprosidin! Was it their place to choose when their life ended? Was it their place to question Fate itself?

Was it her place to let the filth of the immortals continue to poison the land?

Chaos frowned, gripping her swords. There was one thing she knew she had to do, one way to bring peace to the Chaos, one way to avenge those she had lost. One way to claim retribution for the deaths. One way to continue on the legacy of Kinaxus.

To start a war, one that would either kill the gods or tear the world apart in the process.

Chapter Text

Day 2
Overworlds
Graymist

I suppose that the humans think their mountains are so tall, here in the Overworld, and yet they are a mere fraction of the great ranges that ring my homeland. True, we do not often climb them for sport, as I have heard some humans do, but there are certainly more impressive peaks in the Outer Worlds. I do not understand why the humans desire so desperately to conquer these rocky protrusions- there is nothing of value at the top, save for a view and the occasional power-drunk deity. And yet, I find myself so fascinated with the idea of humans. I, simultaneously regretfully and thankfully, did not meet any during my hunt of Epros, but…. There is something about this race of people, so closely similar and yet distantly different from my own, that simply confuses and captures my mind. They are weak and… strange, and yet they possess such a stubbornness and courage that it simply does not make sense. Surely, there must be no sense in their brains, to attempt dangerous things when they are physically so… inept, and yet they create masterpieces, I have heard. Things called ‘music’.

I write of these people because of what I fear the days ahead may bring. They may be stubborn, but they are not too… wise. They follow GODS- they don’t know what they have done to my people. To their people. To our people. They will not understand that what I am doing for us, for the whole world, is not a terrible thing, that, if anything, it is a blessing, a ridding of a curse, a healing of a sickness, a disease upon the land. And they will try to stop me. I know they will. I do not need a seer at the Ath’hala to tell me this. It is not written in the stars, or in stone, but it is just as certain, just as sure to happen.

Such is the way of humans. Blind to anything beyond their own small worlds, too scared to venture out further than what they already know, too foolish to rid themselves of their own cause of death. They do not see as I do what a blight these gods are, what a torment they are. And yet, the humans continue to protect and nurture these parasites, placing them in positions of power above them, trying to defend the very same creatures that kill without hesitation or guilt.

No, humans may be courageous, but they are anything but smart or wise. This is why we are here; this is why the Sheith’ora exist. We are in the right. I, I am in the right. They must be wiped out, whatever the cost. Nothing can stand in the way, it mustn’t. We have gone too long without cleansing them from the world. The blood of my people cries from the ground, demanding retribution and vengeance. This has long since been coming. This is their own fault. What happens now is not of my own doing, it is the immortal justice that can only come from Kinaxus themself, to be gifted upon the earth through the usage of their sole surviving descendant.

I must not be silent. I must not be still.

I must act. I must avenge them, humans or not.

Justice is a price that can only be paid by blood.

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The dawn light filtered through the tree branches in pale, silvery yellow light that shown in thin, delicate rays across the barren tree limbs and through the sparse, few-and-far-between leaves. A cold, brisk wind had blown in overnight, bringing a sharp temperature drop and a thin layer of moon-colored frost covering everything in a delicate, swirling silver. It swathed the ferns and the branches that made up Chaos’s shelter, shining like the Eyes of Kinaxus in the heavens. Chaos brushed off the hoarfrost on her pack, folding the bedroll and strapping it onto the bottom, slinging the stiff leather fastening over their side. After a moment of hesitation, the Sheith’ora shoved the structure to the ground, the sticks and the piled undergrowth crashing to the ground in a tangled heap. They didn’t think anyone would care or notice too much if there were signs of a traveler in the forest.

There were quite a few such wanderers, those who were banished from kingdoms or wanted no part in the teetering war or defected from the armies. Some were simply born into the life of a nomad, the child of a merchant or the son of a hunter. They wandered from place to place, trading for supplies at cities and exploring places untouched by human hands or untraveled by living beings. Many a time, Chaos had wondered if that’s the life they would choose, if she were not a Godkiller, if the Otherworld was not her home.

There had been a scroll, back in her homeland, the Eil’vith of one of the first Godkillers, Blaze, who had been sent forth to slay the deity Quixis, god of Change and the Passage of Time. Blaze had nearly died fighting Quixis, but in the end, Quixis offered them a deal: Blaze could Husk Quixis so long as they let the god’s consciousness coinhabit them. The Sheith’ora accepted, and Quixis’s last gift as a full deity was to give Blaze the life they had dreamed of, a life of wandering and exploration and endless horizons to wander for all of eternity. Eventually, Kinaxus realized what had happened and had sent one of Chaos’s ancestors, Flicker, to bring the inhabited Godkiller back. Chaos had once thought she understood Blaze, thought they could relate to their choice. Now, she wondered how any Sheith’ora could’ve made a deal with any god, even if it had meant the Husking of that god. To allow such a creature, willingly allow, to coexist within one’s body… a crime against humanity and the name of the Godkillers.

The thin rocks that made up the mountainside were also covered in the same hazy layer of ice, with pockets of snow dotting it here and there in between the crevices and the nooks. They slid slightly as Chaos began to ascend, but not enough to completely disentangle and shift outwards, triggering rockslides or tiny avalanches. Pebbles showered through the cracks, piling around Chaos’s boots like sand through an hourglass. They pulled their foot free, hauling themselves up towards the peak.

The slopes were rocky and steep as Chaos ascended them, made of a loose combination of cracks, pebbles, boulders, patches of snow, and tiny blades of grass sticking up in crevices and dips. Their hands ached from scraping on rocks to steady her balance, her feet throbbing in absolute agony. They’d climbed mountains before, but not any that were this unnecessarily steep. Whichever god had created this mountain… Chaos was going to kill them first.

Quietly, she swore under their breath. Although she had a rough idea of where the Left Gateway had taken them, it had not come with a very detailed description of where she had ended up. In short: they were lost. Desperately. Which was mostly fine- gods lived all over the place. Vorago at the bottom of the ocean, Deltavera in the woods off in Fableon, Aeshthale in the Enderlands somewhere, Nexus in the Hub of Netherium. Even Epros had lived in some distant mountain in Aethercadena, although that one had been significantly smaller and also, they had been in a cave underground and not actually at the peak. However, for whatever Kinaxus-forsaken reason, they couldn’t find any gods because their aura-sensing wasn’t working. So, they had to go for the gods they knew the locations of: Anderian, who seldom left the capital of the Enderlands save for wars, Fable, who lived in Fableon but was visiting the border-city of Purgatory, Soul and Lennarius, who lived in the capital of Netherium. Plus a few other lesser gods who were a part of their courts, such as Perix or Nexus.

They gripped the side of a particularly large boulder, using it to haul herself up a steep and slippery rockslide of a slope. Here, the path she had taken cut between the two thin, massive, and tall rockfaces, the winding path the most direct way to the top of the mountain. Unfortunately, it was also the steepest, which was not a particularly well-thought-out decision on Chaos’s part. Her legs were already scratched and dusty from sliding and falling on the snow-slick loose rocks.

The heavy gray skies finally stopped holding back, a light dusting of snow beginning to float to the ground all around Chaos as they climbed, the delicate flake melting onto their coat, the white frost piling up into small drifts and the iced rocks. The air had turned colder as well, which was not too much of a change for the cold-adapted Sheith’ora, but it did make the air harder to breath, although that might also be caused by their current elevation. Chaos swore quietly to Kinaxus that the gods were going to get an obsidian chunk pitched at his head for making this particular peak. The thin pass was shadowed by the twin cliffs, the stone monoliths standing like sentinels overlooking the snow-sprinkled forests beneath. The Godkiller paused, one hand on the sharp edge of the stone to the right, craning their head to look behind them. The scene stole their breath, it was so reminiscent of their home. Eyes blurring with unshed tears that stung in the cold air, they slid to the ground, their back pressed against the stone, their breath a billowing cloud through the frosty air.

A slight overhang nearby provided a slight shelter from the snow, which was rapidly getting heavier, the indentation a welcome sanctuary from the ice-filled air that felt like knives to breathe. Sliding down to the floor, back against the wall, they took out their Eil’vith, the pale gray binding blinding into the rime-covered rocks. Their ink was freezing in the cold, but after a long few minutes of Chaos holding it close to their body, it was usable. The Godkiller reached around to the back of her neck, unclasping one of the necklaces. A long, dark feather hung there, the edge cut into a sharp point for writing. A dip in the black ink, a scrawl on the white page, and Chaos felt as though they were back in the Otherworld, tucked into the darkened library, drawing when they should’ve been studying.

“I miss them,” she whispered, their voice barely more than a passing breeze against the wind as they closed the Eil’vith, setting it beside them. “I want to forget about them, but I can’t. Because… no matter how much it hurts to think about everything… if I forget about them, they’ll be even more gone than they already are.” They placed their chin on top of their knees, which were pulled up close to their chest now. “I…” She let her voice trail off into nothingness. Only the howling of the wind filled the silence as they paused, trying to find words. There were so many different ways to finish that sentence. Hate. Love. Miss. Want. Need. Forgive. Forget. Ask. Plead. Give up. Wish. Dread. Scorn. Live. Die. Left. Came back. Why, why was life so cruel? It gave things, only to snatch them away the second peace, happiness, and security came along. “WHY?” They yelled suddenly, gripping a rock in their hand, throwing it as far as they could. It clattered down the slopes, bouncing away into the trees, vanishing into the white. Tiny pebbles followed in its wake, rolling and falling into the woods. Chaos sighed, leaning their head back against the rockface, the chilly breeze pulling at their short hair and tossing it against their face. “I just want them back,” they mumbled. The wind tossed their words away, scattering them to the four corners of the world in a single breath, gone just as fast as the swirling memories of her people.

“I know how you feel,” a quiet, melodic voice broke in from behind them, soft as kitten fur and low as canyons. Chaos flinched slightly in surprise, head turning sharply. “I’ve lost many dear to me,” the figure said, their silhouette standing in the shadows of the pass near the end of the overhang. “Such is the life of one on our path, isn’t it, Chaos Eprosidin?”

The Sheith’ora pushed themself to their feet, hand on the hilt of their sword. She hadn’t heard the person approach, which was… strange. On a rocky, pebble-filled slope, it would be very hard for someone to walk down without making noise, especially to Chaos. Although the wind was howling outside and the snow was blanketing a lot of the noise, some sort of sound would’ve reached their ears. “Show yourself,” they said, anger and suspicion filling their voice, as well as slight shame and embarrassment. Unless… unless this was a god…

“Oh, Chaos Eprosidin,” the person said, stepping forward into the light and placing her hand on Chaos’s shoulder. “You always were a feisty one.” It was a tall woman, her hair a cascade of braided golden curls down her back, although some strands had broken out, shimmering in the sun like gilded sunlight. Her eyes were large and blue, a color so wild and deep it was like the sky bundled into a ball and set on fire, intense as shafts of light in the middle of Thricefire. She wore a simple wispy dress of white gauze that sat airily around her like clouds spun into threads. A pale gray cloak was pinned at her left shoulder, the strands iridescent in the pale sunlight like falling streaks of rain. The most striking thing was the sprays of violently blue orchids all over, the azure flowers woven through her hair and around her head like a crown, the same plants engraved into the flashing golden armbands she wore. A belt of smaller, darker cobalt-colored orchids was wrapped around her waist like a girdle, a few of the petals falling as she moved.

Chaos stepped back, removing the woman’s hand from her shoulder. “Who… are you? You’re- you’re-”

“My name is Orchid, child,” she said softly, gesturing to the flowers that were widely present. “And as for what I am, I believe you already know.” She smiled, a perfectly pleasant smile, but it still made Chaos’s skin itch with suspicion. Something about her seemed… off.

“You’re a… Vin’thaena?” Chaos said hesitantly, confused. “I assume that’s what you are- a sky spirit… but the flowers are not usually present in such an entity’s appearance- that’s more reminiscent of a nature spirit. Unless… unless you’re a deity…”

Orchid laughed, a laugh like golden sleigh bells on the door of a home during Frosthaven. “Oh, Chaos Eprosidin. You have learned much from your training with your people, but there is still much you have to learn.” She moved towards the edge of the cliff, looking out over the slopes. “In truth, dear Sheith’ora, is that I’m both- and, simultaneously, neither. I am half of each, a Crossborn spirit that is not supposed to even exist. A product of a union between a spirit of the sunlight and a spirit of a redwood tree. So, in a way, Chaos Eprosidin, we share something in that aspect. Both of us are things which should not still be alive.”

Something went off in their brain, a memory of some sort pushing its way to the surface, something the felt like they should pay attention to, but she couldn’t. “What are you talking about, Crossborn?” They growled, panic and anger rising in their stomach. “What do you know of what I should and should not be? What do you speak of?”

“You and I both know what happened in your homeland, Sheith’ora,” Orchid said, sighing, sadness reflected in those unearthly blue eyes. “The role Fate has given me to play in your story is not an entirely pleasant one, but it is a role I must play, nonetheless. We both know that, deep down, you wish you hadn’t survived, because now you must carry an entire culture and civilization on in you, every important aspect of it now lying completely within your grasp. You are the entire Sheith’ora world. If you die, your people die as well.”

“Well, if you were trying to give me a peptalk,” Chaos mumbled, still concerned about the strange fogginess in their brain, “you certainly aren’t too good at it.” She returned the Eil’vith to its pouch, retying the feather pen back around her neck, where it thumped right next to her heart alongside the coin-like locket and the other necklaces.

She smiled that unsettling smile again, the smile made Chaos’s skin itch.. “Well, if you would rather I tell you where a select few gods are, II could do a lot better at that.”

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Orchid left Chaos on the north face of a mountain a few miles away, near the end of the expansive range of peaks. The Crossborn bid adieu with a sort of sad sorrow in her eyes, as though Fate had shown her a thousand different choices and Chaos had taken the wrong one. The Sheith’ora brushed it off, anxious to get away from the strange pulsing energy that Orchid gave off, quite similar to that of a deity, only weaker and inherently wrong. It gave Chaos shivers and the eerie feeling that someone was watching, someone besides Orchid, so it was quite a relief when the Crossborn’s form turned smudged and blurry before vanishing in a web of gilded sunbeams and wind, leaving a smell like a breeze washing over a field of flowers, fresh with rain.

The last gift the Crossborn had given them was something that Chaos both desperately needed and vehemently wanted: the alleviation of the memories of the Scattering. The emotions that came with it save for the anger. She gently faded them out, getting rid of the worst of the traumatizing memories, letting them still linger there, only distantly visible.

And so, the Godkiller found themselves at the foot of a mountain once more, staring out into a vast, foggy plane of rippling tall grass and a gray sky of smooth clouds like the lid of a coffin. It was called the Expanse, according to Orchid- a seemingly endless world of nothing but thick fog, waving grass, and eternally dark clouds. The fog was a comforting thing, to Chaos. A reminder of that which once was, the Mists of the Otherworld. A memory that was already slipping through her fingers, every minute and every moment bringing them further and further away from their mind as Orchid’s last gift took effect. It was the first step towards the emotional apathy that her people prized, the same emotional apathy that Chaos had never managed to possess.

In the world of the Sheith’ora, each individual was expected to follow each rule and teaching to the letter, whether it be hunting a god or going about their daily life. Deviation from the Path was not encouraged or smiled upon, creativity and imagination discarded in favor of more logical, well-worn ideologies and practices. Needless to say, Chaos’s… well, chaotic style was not very appreciated and had been wonderfully well suppressed. Not quite to the standards that the Sheith’ora had been wanting, but well enough to the point that Chaos alone had been chosen out of all their Osh’ethatan to slay Epros.

They often wondered what had prompted Kinaxus to choose them. There were more skilled members in her Osh’ethatan, people such as Volt and Ion. Far more apathetic, too. And yet, the deity themselves had chosen Chaos. Yet another mystery of Energy that would likely never be explained, unless Chaos somehow found the deity that hadn’t been seen in person by anyone, including the High Priestess, in centuries.

Chaos’s people had proven that gods could be killed, and if gods could die… what if Kinaxus was already dead?

Chapter Text

Day 4
Overworlds
Through the gift of my newest acquaintance, Orchid, a Crossborn Vin’thaena-Ish’kalan, my journey to the other side of mountain range has been dramatically shortened. Orchid possesses the ability of Aer’na Or’shane, ‘air movement’ in my native tongue, Elspire. It allows her to move both herself and others for relatively long distances. She brought me to the northeastern-most side of the range, the closest place to the Enderlands and as far as she could take me.

I find something strange about Orchid, besides the feeling that she gives me and the strange aura she emits. She seemed… scared, perhaps, to step off of the mountain and into the moors below. She was so extremely careful not to touch the fogged grass, sparks of an old and ancient sort of distress flickering through those burning-sky eyes. I wonder…. She said the edge of the mountain was as far as she would take me. I do not know much about Crossborns, but I have heard some stories, tales in which the hybrids were slaughtered brutally or had terrible curses put upon them by the gods. Although I always found those stories strange, as the children were punished for the wrongdoings of the parents, I cannot help but wonder if there is some reason the gods do such things, as if they are afraid of the Crossborns. Something deeper than what is known, even by my people.

If Crossborns have some sort of power that is dangerous enough to make the gods hate and dread them, is it possible to wield this power myself, or to bring such a creature along with me? I would not choose Orchid, for the strange itching feeling she gives me, and I still find something about her suspicious, but if I could find another, a different Crossborn, would it not be worth it?

I wonder.

Orchid gave me the locations of a few of the gods. She, surprisingly, failed to mention Anderian, which one could simply take as common knowledge that the queen rarely left the capital city save for war, but the Crossborn regardless told me of Soul and Fable, both of which are also in their respective capital cities. I wonder what Orchid owes Anderian anyways. Whatever it is, it must be a great price, if she is actively trying to protect her, a goddess. It find it interesting that Orchid is choosing to assist me, as well. She owes me nothing- I had not met her until yesterday. And yet, she acts as though she has known me for a long time. Orchid calls me ‘Chaos Eprosidin’ when I had never told her my name. She knows about the Scattering. She knows what I want. She knows what I need.

How strange. I spend my days dreaming of the day I can kill an immortal, and yet here one is, and she acts like she understands me better than my own people. I do not… like her, in any way. In fact, quite the opposite. There is something about this Crossborn that makes my skin itch, as though she is not what she seems, as though she is one large illusion layered over another. There are so many layers of depth to her, and I have barely touched the surface. Regardless, I am thankful of what she has done to assist me, even if I do not understand the motive. Somehow, despite what she’s done, I find myself hoping I never see Orchid again.

I have directions to the Enderlands, now, thanks to her. The Gateway I took placed me on the Fableon-Enderlands border, which has been a dangerous place to be since the tensions between the two began to rise. Fableon stretches from the west coast all the way to the center of the continent like a half-moon with a chunk out of the bottom. In the middle of the continent, it meets the Enderlands, which stretch from the eastern shores to the north and cover the upper lands like a dome. Beyond the Enderlands is the once-proud nation of Aethercadena, a sideways crescent-like shape which stretches from the dome of the Enderlands all the way to the Northern Tips, the spiky pillars of ice and snow, which has become a desolate wasteland since the Husking of Alerion. Beneath Fableon and the Enderlands, Netherium lies, a vast land of deserts and valleys and cracks that run deep beneath the earth. It too, had fallen on some harder days since the death of Netherum, but I have heard Queen Soul is a “just and fair” ruler.

As if any god on this planet could be fair and just.

I hold no quarrel with the kingdoms, with the citizens that have placed themselves under such a rule. They do not know, for how could they? It is not in their nature to understand such things. They are like Allays being lured by a single, impure note. What is it the say? To err is human, to forgive is divine? Errors and mistakes are a part of who they are. To forgive- the gods are not benign, gentle creatures. They do not forgive. They are cruel things. Well, to fight fire with fire- apply the same ruthlessness back to them, is that not what we must do? Perhaps there are other ways. Perhaps there are more humane options.

But I am neither human nor humane, and neither are the gods.

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The world was an ocean of tall grass and unending rippling plants. The world was unyielding cold skies covered in slowly drifting clouds that watched like a thousand eternal eyes the activities of the plane. The world was a place where silence reigned with iron hands, choking the life out of it in cold, heavy hands. The world was a land of fog and cold.

Chaos’s breath fogged in the air like a silver cloud beneath their hood. The green cowl was thick enough to keep the coolness of the air out, but it mainly served to block the drizzling raindrops that fell from the sky like liquid drops of moonlight and gathered on the long grass heads in ice-like beads that slowly soaked the Sheith’ora’s pants as they walked, brushing through the rain-covered plants. Her vision was limited in the thick fog which rose from the ground in wispy streams like spray from the ocean waves.

It was so different from the Mists of the Otherworld. The Mists would dance around you like a sentient being, a swirling vortex of gray and black and white that wrapped the world in pale colors. It seemed alive, intelligent, caring and hiding and gifting with power and strength. It was a Sheith’ora’s greatest strength in the Otherworld, a swift flowing river of water and air that every Godkiller, from the youngest child to the oldest, most experienced soldier knew how to use, how to traverse, how to twist it to their own advantage. It was the very essence of Kinaxus, generated from the god’s aura like petrichor after rain. Fog was different. It was cold, unmoving, still. It did not seem alive the way the Mists did. There was nothing warm about it. If the Mists were from Kinaxus, fog was just as much of Epros.

The sun began to sink towards the horizon as she walked, morning coming and going, followed by noon and starting towards evening. Soon, the strange creatures known in folklore as ‘Creepers’ would appear, their humanoid shapes crawling on all-fours towards you, pale-skin covered with green sores and too-large black eyes staring, the wide crescent-mouth stretched like a crescent moon across their faces.

Nearly the entire day had passed in that misty field before distant sounds began to reach Chaos’s ears. Laughter, the chattering of humans, and clanging of metal. She slowed her pace, step becoming lighter and quieter as she pulled the hood lower. Slowly, shapes began to appear through the fog, dark silhouettes of battlements and barracks and walls. Light from the torches glimmered through the gray, sharp and needle-bright. Chaos paused, crouching down in the grass, letting the same dusky green colored grass blend with their cloak of the same color, watching the stone-faced guard on patrol making his rounds. She waited until he passed, entering the main stone building in the center, before they moved, creeping closer to the structures.

The outpost was made of various buildings of stone and wood and bricks gathered together. A tall, dark oak and cobblestone tower stood near the middle, which is where the majority of the watchmen were, standing beneath the domed wooden ceiling. Smaller wooden buildings went to the left and right of it- armories, guard towers, barracks, mess hall, and officers’ rooms. Light from crackling fires spilled through many windows, glimpses of laughing soldiers or tired commanders catching Chaos’s eyes as she walked through. They still weren’t sure exactly what they were doing- but that was normal. The Godkiller preferred to act on impulse rather than strategy.

“So this is the Fabelon border, huh?” They muttered under their breath. Since the threat of war had increased, King Fable had increased border security, setting up long battlements and walls to ring the Kingdom of the West, placing patrol houses and barracks periodically along the wall. Chaos had stumbled upon one of these such outposts, which was both fortunate and unlucky. Although she might’ve had more of a chance to get into the Enderlands somewhere between encampments, soldiers spoke loosely. Gossip, rumors, and stories spread quickly between armies. Fear is just as valuable as a weapon as is a sword, is it not? Chaos hesitated, watching the guard exit the building once more and pausing to talk with one of the other guards. Another few seconds and her window would be gone, the watchmen returning.

She started to move forward, but the guard turned casually to look out at the mists. Chaos dropped to the grass, frustrated and anxious. Through the gaps in the stalks, they could see the guards continuing to talk, with the one still letting his gaze travel over the fields. A long moment passed before he looked away, saying one last farewell to his friend before returning to his post. Chaos’s opportunity was gone.

Growling softly, they moved away, heading back the way they came, planning on going over the wall instead. The other option wouldn’t have work anyways, she realized, noticing the small details they hadn’t before, like the intricately-placed alarm bells hanging all around the camp, or the heavily-armed guards by the front of the main tower. Better to have lost their chance than to have tried and failed, no matter how annoyed it made Chaos feel. She moved, staying low in the waist-high grass, suddenly thankful of the gathering darkness and the sinking sun, creeping along until the torches were out of sight, then began to approach the wall.

It was a ‘marvel of engineering’, for humans, at least. Ten feet tall and six feet wide, the barricade was made of massive blocks of blackstone sharply cut. Every-other block was in the shape of a squared-cross or a sideways ‘x’. The stones in between were cut in ‘I’ shapes, locking together with the crosses for support. The blackstone had been imported from the neutral nation of Netherium, brought over via deep canals that ran from the southern country to the Enderlands and Fabelon. There was about a ten-mile-wide gap spanning from the Fabelon border to the Enderlands border called ‘Thrush’s Pass’, a no-man’s land of sorts where ‘any human found forthwith’ was absolutely free game to kill. Lucky for Chaos, they were neither a man nor a human, so absolutely none of that applied them. Handy thing, being a Sheith’ora. None of the mortals’ rules applied to her! Which means she is above the law! And therefore, can legally do whatever she wants! Including killing the immortal monarchs of the world!

Chaos realized they now had a stupid grin spreading across their face and immediately scowled. Far better, anger was, than happiness. Happiness was… bright and eye-scorching and fluffy. It completely got rid of Chaos’s perfectly-justified suspicions about people and replaced it with some dopey warm emotions like ‘trust’ and ‘belonging.’ Trust was for fools, and the only place Chaos belonged was with a sword in a deity’s throat. Anger was a fuel, a fire within, a driving force of hatred and loathing that completely swamps any other feelings. Anger was far better. Chaos often felt like they could travel half-way around the world on fury alone without getting tired. Of course, that was stupid; Sheith’ora didn’t have to sleep if they didn’t want to. Yet another plus of being related to a god, she supposed.

The wall loomed in front of her, dark and foreboding. Pyres for signal fires spanned about every hundred yards, each one stacked with oil-soaked wood. In between each pyre, two guardsmen stood, staring outwards into Thrush’s Pass, each with a sword sheathed on their belt and a soulflame torch in their hand, the unique effects of the ghostly flames letting the guards see heat signatures. They had their backs to Chaos as she approached, the one closest to her standing so still they might as well have been a statue. The Godkiller reached the base of the wall, which was slippery smooth, not a single step or bump cut into it. The only way onto the wall was via one of the outposts, and Chaos had already tried and failed to enter one of those. So, in reality, there were two ways of getting up: jumping, which was entirely impossible as no living thing could break the laws of gravity, not even birds, who worked with gravity rather than against it, and climbing. Chaos chose the second.

Drawing out the two thin knives sheathed on the underside of their forearms, Chaos took a slow and steady breath, knowing they would only get one shot at this. Taking a few steps back, they suddenly charged the wall, digging the knives into the stone with a sharp crack like thunder, and pulling upwards. Normally, the knives would break the moment they had tried to pierce the blackstone, but these knives weren’t normal. They were made of Netherite, from the body of the god Netherum themself. There were about seven in existence, made from Netherum’s bones and passed down through four select families. There was once eight, but the eighth was sacrificed to Kinaxus during a time of extreme hardship for the Sheith’ora people years ago. The knives had once belonged to Chaos’s parent, Scorch, gifted to them the day they had been given the task of slaying Epros. Unbreakable, never-dulling, and needle-sharp, the knives cut through the rock like nothing, staying locked in as Chaos pulled themself up, hanging suspended mid-air for a long moment behind the guard. They had turned, having heard the noise of the knives breaking the stone, and stood slack-jawed as Chaos tumbled to the ground, coming up in a crouch, sheathing the twin knives.

“Wait-” they choaked out as Chaos knocked them to the ground, grabbing their torch and leaning it against one of the battlements to as to not alert the other guard as to the disturbance. “I’m like you,” they wheezed as the Sheith’ora picked them up by their throat, drawing a normal knife from the sheath on their bicep. “I’m with her, just like you- I’ve done my job like I was told to do, I’ve sent back the report, I’m sorry if it hasn’t reached her by now it’s on the way, I swear-”

“Stop babbling,” Chaos growled, then paused, thinking over his words. “What do you mean, with her?”

“Lady Anderian, Queen Anderian, her council- I’m with them, I’m with her, I’m with YOU!” His voice was becoming shrill and loud, and Chaos narrowed her eyes at him. “I can prove it- look at the necklace,” he said in a quieter tone. Chaos obliged, using the tip of the blade to fish out a round medallion on a thin silver chain from around the guard’s neck. The medallion was about the size of a copper coin, engraved with thin lines that swirled around until they met in the middle in the form of a snake-like pupil of black.

“Anderian’s sign,” Chaos whispered under her breath, twisting the charm to catch the weak rays of moonlight that were filtering through the clouds. Every deity had one, from the once-Netherum’s triangular sigil, Hearth of the that was now Queen Soul’s to Casus’s swirled sapphire circle, the Heart of the Sea.

The guard nodded. “Yes- I told you, I’m with you! We’re on the same side! I know my report on the defense system of the border might’ve been delayed, but it’s hard to send a letter these days. All of the ones sent the normal way are read and censored! It took me nearly three weeks to find a traveling smuggler willing to deliver it! Took most of my wages, too, to keep him quiet. Let her know that, will you?” He begged.

Chaos leaned closer. “You can let her know yourself. I’m sure the two of you will be able to chat in death, hm?” The knife dropped away from the necklace, carving a slow crescent moon into the man’s throat. Small choking noises came from him, a low bubble accompanying it as the light faded from his eyes. Chaos let the corpse drop, snapping the necklace from the dead guard’s neck and fastening it around her own neck. “Thanks for the free ticket through the Enderlands,” they told the body. As an afterthought, she broke off a chunk of the Falxspar crystal around her neck, placing it on the man’s chest. If that didn’t get Fable’s attention, she didn’t know what would.

“Hey!” A voice carried through the fog from wall nearby. “Who are you?” It was the other guard, charging towards her, sword unsheathed and eyes narrowed. Chaos gripped one of the blackstone teeth along the top of the wall and swung over the side of the barrier, disappearing into the darkness. The guard ran to the edge, holding out the soulflame torch out to try and catch a glimpse of any heat signatures.

Chaos was already gone.

Chapter Text

Day 5
Overworlds
Graymist

This land is haunted.

I can feel it in the wind. I have often wondered why Thrush’s Pass is as big as it is, but now I understand. I understood after I left the Fableon border. This stretch of land, this ten-miles-wide of rock and saplings and grass- there is more present here than just me. I cannot describe exactly what it is that is making me feel this way, but it is as though this place is… alive. I can feel the folds in the void here. This is not a normal pass, there is something here. A deity or a god or a Crossborn or a simple nature spirit like Orchid’s parent, I do not know which. Perhaps neither. Perhaps all.

The wind howls with a vaguely human-like whine, the breeze seeming to carry whispers of a voice if I listen hard enough. The last swirling wisps of fog dance by like ghosts in a ballroom, the prickling of watching eyes following my every step. I am not comfortable here, no matter how much it reminds me of what my home once was. Even this scraggly bush I am leaning against to write seems as though it must fight for every scrap of life and water in this place. The guards at the border, their anxious, jumpy attitudes, it makes sense if I am correct. Something else is at work here.

Or perhaps it is simply my nerves.

Anderian’s sign now hangs around my neck, no matter how much I feel I need to tear it off and throw it into the never-ending abyss. I have already decided that I will not risk going through the Enderlands border, not after what I saw yesterday. Nay, I will sneak by as I should’ve properly done with the Fableon wall, even if it takes more time and wastes hours waiting for night to fall. I… still, I do not understand why that guard truly believed I was of Anderian’s court. Forest colored clothes are not reminiscent of the Enderlands, and yet he seemed so sure that I was of his Lady’s power that he immediately spilled his secrets like ink billowing across a page. Such a genuine fear, too. Was it the paranoia that I myself am feeling from this Pass? Or is there something else that I have missed?

Whatever it is that guard saw or believed, I can only hope that any Enderlands resident believes the same. I must be a fool, to be placing my trust in a dead man’s delusions. Anyone who stops me or meets me along the way, up until I have my knives buried in Enderian’s chest, I must hope they do not question me or stand in my way. For now, I set my sights on that Hyun Vis’anacoth, that Distant Kingdom, and set my faith in the power of Kinaxus.

Hallowed be the god of energy, and may their light forever shine on our path.

---------------------------------

Chaos was being followed.

Not by human beings, who didn’t dare venture into Thrush’s Pass, terrified to be murdered by the enemy or even by their own people. Not by deities, who were too smart to follow a Godkiller. Not by creatures, who would be scared away easily by Chaos’s movements. Not by nature spirits, who would be too easy to spot in the mist and could not stray far from their vessels. Not by a delusion, or a hallucination, or a figment of Chaos’s imagination. No, it was not anything… alive. It was a feeling, a sensation, a flicker of a shadow just outside of Chaos’s vision, a glimmer of a figure in her peripheral view.

And yet, Chaos could not bring themselves to care, to think about it for any longer than a passing moment. Thoughts were fleeting. This, this expanse, this pass- it was endless.

It felt like flying, or maybe dying, or maybe spiraling into an entire other universe, a whole other realm beyond our own. One that was as delicate as petals and soft as whispers against a sleeping face, gentle as the moon upon the sea, bright as distantly glimmering stars on a backdrop of darkest blue velvet. There was something so perfectly unnatural about moving through Thrush’s Pass, the divine feeling of something utterly wrong that moved so rightly across Chaos’s skin. Whether the spirits of a generation long lost or the ghosts of a generation yet to come or the gazes of a generation still living skimmed across these misty lands of rock slabs and struggling grass, the dancing presence that was as faint as shadows slipping from the hands of a tired deity surrounded and enfolded Chaos with dove-light wings.

A part of Chaos knew, in some fabled, distant, faded way, that they should be suspicious, that something was wrong here, a puzzle piece from another mystery dropped in the middle of this world. For it so out of place, breathtaking as the stars above, perilous as the deeps beneath, the skip of a missing heartbeat, the dash of an adrenaline-filled breath, a racing thought. Melting pillars of time and space and movement and sky as old as the world. Crashing to the jade-like earth below, hard and cold. Dissolving back into the nebulas. Cosmic collisions and ethereal beings gliding above the world on fog-colored wings.

Thoughts and emotions were distant things. There was the here and the now and the jumping feeling like the skip your heart gives as you set eyes upon a lost beloved one or a deity too beautiful for your mortal consciousness to coherently experience. It was flimsy luminosity, an ignition of blithe, subtle wisps of curling glows that made the rest of the world appear as a dim, bleak, dismal place of dreary gloom and dusk-like shades that cast veils of obscurity against the brilliance of the astronomical stars that graced the skies like light spangling Kinaxus’s face, ever watching, always seeing. Thrush’s Pass was a pass, yes, but one between worlds, a place where the curtains dimmed and the veils thinned and the world faded and space slipped away and time was gone. It was a bridge between universes, between realms, between things that should never touch and yet were now hurtling towards each other on parallel axises that were tangled like dark jeweled vines of sparkling dewdrops.

It was more than a moment, more than an emotion, more than an experience. It was stars bursting in explosions of color, a rippling in the fabric of the universe, a fold between realities that walked the line between corporeal and ethereal. Airy and solid. Quickening and faltering. Hawthorns and roses. Iridescent bands of light ignited around Chaos’s feet as they walked, sparks of rainbows and raindrops on cobwebs. With a wondering glance, they looked up, breath catching in their throat as they realized that beams of sunlight were filtering through the mists, turning them into golden edged clouds of gray and storms, light refracting around in waves and spirals and lines of pure energy and heaven. The grass was the color of spun bronze and copper, the dying rays of sunlight threads of fire. The stones, still damp with morning dew in this humid, once-dim place, were as iron ore beneath the earth, faint particles of sparkling silver and frost-burned moons flickering through the bark-gray-and-brown slabs of slate.

It was like walking through the essence of a god.

Chaos was in a world of pure hue and shade and color and tint, a place of flickering kaleidoscopes of dazzling luster, shining opalescence and glimmering prisms. To explain precisely what they were seeing was as to try and describe death- unfathomable, infinite, fleeting, flippant. Here was what life needed- the color, the sparkle, the weightless, guiltless, apathetic and exhilarating feeling. Memory? HA! Who needed that when there was only the now, eh? Time was fleeting. The present- that, that was forever.

Something flickered at the edge of her vision again, a dark shape in this hazy land of luminosity and brilliance. Chaos turned towards it, something like annoyance drifting lazily across their consciousness, annoyance at whatever could be such a dim blemish upon a place of diamond and opal. It was a dark figure, hazy as though made of mist, a shade darker than the rest of the gilded fogs, barely visible as it floated closer, disappearing in and out of view, featureless face nothing more than a glint in the glory. As it came nearer to the Sheith’ora, they could faintly make out a patch of the mist that was lighter than the rest- a paler gray stripe near the top of what would be the head, slightly curled and fuzzy, like a lock of hair. Chaos found that her feet would not stop, that she did not want to stop. Onwards she walked, all while that strange wraith floated closer and closer, gliding more than walking.

As the fog thinned further, burning off in the sunlight, a dark shape loomed in the distance. It was blocky and dim, a thin hue that grew darker and darker as she approached. The mist-ghost’s pace seemed to quicken, the gap between the two growing narrower and narrower. The Godkiller stumbled towards the wall, mind clouded and wreathed in smoke as they moved through the opulence, thoughts vanishing as fast as they appeared. The figure reached out with hazy fingers, the smudged forms coming towards Chaos’s face. Something clicked on in her head, like a puzzle piece being fitted into place. A single thought flashed through her mind, completely foreign and unfamiliar.

Run.

The world dimmed and the sparkling waves of color vanished like smoke into the air. Reality snapped into place, jolting Chaos. The jerk made her unwillingly dodge the misty hands that reached past her, the wraith whirling around, its smokey body thinning in the breeze it itself created. Something akin to a snarl drifted from its form, more of a pulse along Chaos’s mind than an actual spoken sound. She turned, dashing away from the creature as the mist fully burned way, letting drifts of sunlight scorch through the entity, disintegrating into just another part of the fog.

They slumped against a sparse and skimpy tree, the branches prickling against their skin as she sat. Chaos’s thoughts were a fragmented blur, wisps of the strange foggy optimism and hallucinations clinging to them. Although that voice had caused the majority of the haziness to dissipate, some of it lingered still, like trying to think through clouds and flowers. They tore her hands through their hair, resisting the urge to claw out her eyes and reach into her mind to scrape out the mildew-like feelings of fluffy, sugary presences. Whatever had happened, it was not something that Chaos was eager to anticipate again. Theories were already circling through her mind, helping to clear the remnants. The most logical theory was that thing in the mists was some kind of predatory creature that caused animals to hallucinate and place it in a docile state so it could kill them.

Windwraith.

Again, that foreign thought, unplaced there by the Sheith’ora and completely unfamiliar. That word, however…. It brought back memories of old beastiary scrolls back in the Otherworld, ancient half-tattered scrolls which described creatures long dead or missing. Creatures like Windwraiths. Not quite living, not quite dead, not quite human, not quite animal, Windwraiths were lost souls of travelers lead astray by the mysterious lights known as Will O’ the Wisps. Vengeful and manipulative, the Windwraiths were known for haunting the places of their death, leading more wanderers to their death and devouring their souls, turning them into more Windwraiths. Few survived encounters with Windwraiths, but those that did ended up with a more fragile consciousness due to the hallucinogenic abilities of the entities, who would break through minds and thoughts to bring humans to their death.

Which made Chaos desperately uncomfortable.

They steadied their breathing, turning her thoughts and concentration to the dark shape she had seen in the mist: the Enderlands border. Not too different from that of Fableon, but more… elegant. Less blunt and blocky. More arches and spires and towers. Carved out of the earth itself, the lands surrounding the border were a slight, gradual decline, leading to a towering creation hewn from the world itself. Steep, outward-sloped walls of pale marble slick with condensation prevented climbing, the sharp spikes along the railings helping to repel attackers who would come with ladders. Guards lined the entirety of the wall, spaced out about twenty yards. Queen Anderian was known for her brutal drafting of her subjects into the nation’s army, every eligible person from the scientist in a laboratory to the florist in the city. Nearly sixty percent of the Enderlands’ population were soldiers- never mind what they had been before.

A queen who would simply pluck people from their lives to make them die in her battles while fighting her war caused by her mistakes. A goddess who did not care that her subjects had lives of their own, families to return to or jobs to fulfill. A general who sacrificed innocent beings in a bloodbath to prove her dominance over other countries. This, this was why Chaos needed to kill the gods. This is what made Chaos confused when others protected and served and defended the deities. How could anyone as twisted and soulless as the gods even deserve to live in the first place? It was as wrong as fire falling from the stars.

Calming their nerves and quieting their jumpy, clouded mind, Chaos pulled her cloak closer around herself and began approaching one of the gates about forty yards away. As she drew near, the guards shifted slightly, one of them coming towards her. Chaos paused, letting the guard walk forward until they were about three feet away. “Name?” they asked brusquely. The Shieth’ora said nothing, instead fishing out Anderian’s sign from around her neck and holding it up by the thin chain. The guard’s eyes narrowed as they leaned forward, grabbing the sign and flipping it over. On the back, more lines spiraled around, forming a loose totem-like shape with dark eyes. “Why didn’t you send a message like usual?” The guard questioned, dropping the sign.

“You know how it is,” Chaos replied, using the Fableon guard’s excuse. “During a war, that is. Security all over the place. They’re checking every letter sent. Tried finding a smuggler, but they’ve been cracked down on recently. All the ones that are left are the over-priced ones. Thought I might as well just deliver it myself.” The guard hummed noncommittedly, twisting their head to look over their shoulder and giving a slight jerk of the head to the other waiting guards. They nodded back and one disappeared into a slim stone room set into the wall. Chaos followed the first guard back to the wall. After a long moment, the gate was hauled open and Chaos stepped through.

“Safe travels, Watcher,” the guard said, holding one hand up in a gesture of farewell. The Godkiller turned to return the favor, but the gates were already closing. Through the shrinking opening, Chaos’s gaze met a pair of vivid purple eyes, staring right at her, and a glimpse of flashing armor and glimmering weapons in a very different style from the other guards.

The gate clanged shut.

----------------------------------------------

The soldier watched as the heavy iron gate slammed shut, the crash reverberating through the metal in gentle waves of vibrations. One of the guards, Balto, he thought his name was, slammed down the heavy metal bar set into the wall. It was a sort of lock for the gate, similar to how the doors on an aqueduct could be shut or opened to conserve water or prevent flooding. There was a grinding metal shriek following the lock, as there always was, then a series of clicks. He always imagined it had something to do with the thin, hollow metal tubes set into the ground, something with pistons and redstone. Such technology had never been a big interest of his- no, his tastes were strictly agricultural.

Or, they had been- before the war. Now, he was stuck as a soldier. Thank the gods he’d been promoted to a task force a few weeks ago, even if it was still border guarding. It meant he had a chance for longer missions and more time away from the life of guarding, on the rare occasion he was to be sent out. In the three weeks since his reassignment, he hadn’t seen a shred of a mission, not a scrap of a document or a smear of ink. Things had been tensely quiet since negotiations had begun in Tribul- or, perhaps, it simply seemed that way for the guards of Thrush’s Pass.

Everyone knew there was something off about Thrush’s Pass, but there was no concrete evidence, mostly because they were too scared to venture out into the pass. Theories abounded, everything from a god of fear to it being Aphrien and Achrien’s home after they vanished to being haunted by spirits to there being absolutely nothing wrong with the place and it was just a Fableon trick. That last one was mainly Connor, another of the local guard who was the local conspiracy theorist. Everything from Queen Soul having died long ago to secret labs manufacturing biohazardous plants to Aethercadena not actually existing and being an entire sham to hide the fact that the residents of this continent were too scared to venture out beyond what they already knew.

But he had heard the shrill screams that pierced through the wind during the night, when all others slept soundly while he was on watch. He had seen the dark shadow figures vanishing into thin air. They had seen the glinting eyes in the void-colored shadows. There was something out there. It was no trick. It was not human. Nothing else could generate this prickling feeling as though there was something watching you. Nothing else could sob in the feral, angry, broken way like the sounds that carried through the windows of the barracks. Nothing else could bear fangs like tiger jaws or cry profanities at the moon in a language long forgotten and never spoken. In his mind, if the Fableon soldiers were smart enough and talented enough and goddamn dedicated enough to do that level of trickery every night just to spook some enemy guards, they deserved to have someone fear them.

Someone knocked on the doorframe, making him look up. “She’s far enough away,” Sounder said, entering the room and taking a seat across from him. “Are you sure you want to do this? We can pass it to Mocha or Winn, if you want. You don’t have to do it. I understand this is your first real mission, and it could be rather long-winde-”

“I want to do it,” he said, cutting them off. “Sounder, I’ve been waiting for this for weeks. Everyone else has been doing everything else. It’s finally my turn, and I can’t wait to get out of here, even if it’s just for a little while."

“Gee, we’re really that bad?” Sounder joked, helping him put on his packs. They were a series of specially designed pouches and sheaths that fit slimly against his body and slipped perfectly underneath armor. They had been specially designed at an Enderlands laboratory near the capital, a testing lab which turned out weapons of war and special types of armor, trying this and that to make sure their soldiers were safe and able to win battles. Able to carry roughly ten to twenty knives, depending on the height of the wearer, as well as nearly twice that amount of black pouches ranging from the size of three coppers by the neck to one capable of holding a medium-sized book near the small of the back.

Quietly, the soldier dipped his head to Sounder, grabbing a tarnishing metal necklace on a leather strap, tying it around his neck so the pitchfork- or, perhaps, a trident, sat right between his collarbones. Sounder gave him a tight smile and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck, Farmer Man.” He nodded, returning the smile. “Come back safe, will you? You know how dangerous this is, as well as any of us. If they really are a Fableon soldier, you know how dirty they fight.” Dropping their gaze, Sonder sighed. “You better get going. Winn and Lassie will want to say goodbye.”

The door swung outwards as he pushed it open, the dark wood creaking on the metal hinges. Balto dipped his head to the soldier as the gate was unlocked and hauled open, shrieking iron-on-iron. Grass crunched and stones shifted and metal clanked and then there was nothing but open sky with wisps of fading mists and shafts of sunlight and distant trees and mountains in front of him.

Centross took a deep breath and began the hunt.

Chapter Text

Day 6
Overworlds
Blackmist

I write this by the light of the gibbous moon above in an attempt to calm my nerves. Funny, is it not, how the moon is- was, rather, sometimes called the Eye of Epros? I wonder what they would do if they knew that their Husker was using it to desperately scrawl lines of black ink across a pale page the color of bone in a book carried only by the one thing gods fear most? Well, perhaps not the Shieth’ora themselves, but the gods certainly fear the day we come for them. The idea that their time has come to an end. The possibility that they will die. The humans would laugh if they knew that deities, something they see as unkillable, are absolutely terrified of being killed by us.

Speaking of being terrified, I do not like to admit such things usually, but… I am certain there is something following me. The thought sounds foolish, I know, but I can… feel? sense? be aware of? something beyond my limited night-vision and hearing. It is like a cold prickling along my neck and arms, like chips of Aethercadena ice being stabbed into my body. My flesh along my arms turns bumpy… what a strange occurrence. I cannot recall such a thing happening to me before. And this feeling, this sensation like someone is tugging on my skin and wearing my face for me, as though I am an imposter in my own flesh and bones, it is… unpleasant. Undesirable. I dislike it.

When all I could hear was my own heartbeat and it became impossible for me to remain alert without being jumpy, I knew I had to stop and still my fleeting thoughts that fly away from me like hawks. It is just my mind being affected by the lingering affects of the Windwraith’s power, I am sure. Funny. That thought was meant to comfort me. Strange how it has only made me more uncomfortable.

Carnage, my now-deceased Per’anak, he taught me and my Osh’ethatan that a Shieth’ora’s mind was strong and near impenetrable, designed to tolerate the effects of a mind-based goddess like Anderian and to resist a deity trying to Inhabit our minds. He said that it was a… a passive defense, I believe he called it. Something our mind does instinctively, something like raising a shield around our mental energy and blocking out everything else. Of course, he did warn us that, like all shields, it could be broken when enough force was used on it, and while we knew this, it seemed to unlikely and rare that any entity would ever be able to summon enough force to do this. I wonder if he was wrong, if there is another way our brains can be invaded- a sneakier attack, for example. The Windwraith’s influence did not seem brutal or blunt; it seemed gentle and subtle, like the touch of a feather whisked by the wind across the surface of a lake. It did not rip and burn, it slipped and dodged around my defenses, managing to trickle its way through the cracks and the crevices, fluid and silent.

I wonder if this means other creatures, such as gods, could also break my mind, if they used the same approach, or if it is an ability unique to the Windwraiths alone. I hope it is the latter if it must be these two options alone. Otherwise, it seems quite ironic that a Sheith’ora with a possibly defenseless mind is running towards the goddess of the mind, mental energy, and thoughts, the goddess of illusions, lies, and the goddess of memories and time. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, does it not? At least I have little to worry about when it comes to Haeihaei- the Deity of Light and Shadow could do little to me, even in a weakened mental state.

I have officially left the mist. Even though it was but a mere replica of the Mists of my homeland, it was a comforting reminder of what once was, even if it lasted for but a while. And now, I have returned to the state I was in five days ago; I walk across shadowed forests and moonlit clearings that stretch for nearly a mile or two before dropping back into the undergrowth and the stately elms and oaks that fill these lands. I hope these patches of woods fade out quickly. From what I remember of the old Geography scrolls in my homeland, the Enderlands are known for being a primarily open place, although wide mountain ranges swath the land. Even the strings of peaks would be easier for me to traverse than these dense forests where vines dangle to trip and strangle and roots snake across the ground like tripwires and brambles snag and pull you into tangles of ferns and thorns. I am simply not built for it, much in the same way that the humans of Fableon and Netherium and the Enderlands were not built to survive in Aethercadena. Probably why they failed to claim any of its land and why it remains an uninhabited, unruled place to this day. Perhaps that is where I will go to after my quest is completed. I doubt I will return to the Otherworld for a long time. Such a visit could be enough to overwhelm the gift Orchid gave me, the gift of relief from the pain of the memories.

There would be a certain poetic justice, however, in a single broken Sheith’ora returning to reclaim their homeland after slaying the gods that massacred her people. A sort of… sign, perhaps, that we cannot be killed and that the Godkillers will forever endure as Kinaxus willed it to be. It would be comforting to walk amid the Mists, the real Mists, not the fake imitations the Overworlds have to offer, once more. To build myself a home, far away from humans and deities and to live out my centuries in peace.

Our lifespans are both blessings and curses. They are a strand which connects us to the gods and their immortal lives, a well-kept secret of the Shieth’ora. We cannot die of old age. We can only die from diseases or wounds or drowning or whatnot. We remain forever youthful until some form of death claims our lives, forever young and quick, forever living onwards. A blessing and a curse. Forever doomed to remember every traumatic memory, every painful time in our lives, having to relive a lifetime of experiences, both good and bad, until our memories fade or until we perish from this earth. Perhaps t-

The quill pen fell to the ground, leaving a thick smear of ink black as void on the page as the Godkiller quickly snapped to their feet, unsheathing their Netherite knives in a blur of reflections of dark stars and metal. For a long, tense moment, she waited, frozen in place, on full alert, fingers flexing around the knives’ handles. The sound that had jolted them out of their writing had fallen silent, but they knew what it was. It had been the sound of branches crunching and cracking like peals of thunder, just once, followed by a soft stirring as though petal-delicate leaves were being rustled by armor-clad feet. A long silence followed as the Sheith’ora strained their ears, every muscle tensed. For a moment, nothing happened, but then a faint noise like the brushing of fern fronds nodding gently against each other floated through the death-quiet forest.

Slowly, like a drop of half-frozen water down an ice-filled waterfall, Chaos edged through the trees, creeping through the shadows and ducking behind undergrowth as she entered the woods, leaving the star-washed clearing behind. Through the pale moonlight that filtered through the leaves and branches, the Godkiller could distantly make out the dark shape of someone peering through the ferns back at the clearing where Chaos had just been. Moonbeams glinted off of mirror-like steel plates and flashing amethyst-colored eyes. She knew those eyes- those violet eyes that were deeper than the wine-dark ocean and seemed to move and shift and pull you in like the swelling waves of the sea, turbulent and troubled and yet laser-focused, gaze like piercing knives in the night.

Chaos circled around until she was behind the stranger, tightening her grip around the hilts of their knives. With a last quick inhale, she tapped into the well of glowing power that resided in the back of her mind, a store of pure energy that had been there since the day they’d first opened their eyes. It was a gift from the god Kinaxus, a birthright, of sorts. Gifts were not uncommon among the Shieth’ora, although there were a few who did not possess them. They were hereditary, gifts benefitting the descendants of the Primordial. Some had two or three, some had none. Chaos’s Gift was the Gift of Speed, an infinite source of power that they could push into their limbs and mind, gifting them with superior agility and swiftness, along with the quick thinking to go with it, the ability to take in information all at once, to categorize it, and to send signals to the rest of her body lightning-fast.

They appeared out of the trees like a flash of light from a shooting star across the sky, slamming into the stranger, who grunted heavily and stumbled but did not fall. He was taller than the Godkiller, stocky build and stiff muscles beneath his skin covered with sharp and uncomfortable iron plates which stabbed into Chaos’s torso and legs.

He twisted around, turning to face Chaos as they skidded on the dirt, his movements seeming slow and blundering to Chaos’s Gift-enhanced mind. She pushed off of the ground, the edges of the knives flashing in the light. Grunting, they used their smaller size and quicker speed to dodge neatly around the soldier, who drew his sword. The Shieth’ora darted in, trying to stab between the plates of the armor, but the stranger grabbed their arm, yanking them around and twisting it painful behind their back. Cursing slightly under their breath, Chaos reached up with her free arm and gripped the back of his head, yanking it down and pulling her body up until she felt the grip on her arm loosen, dropping back to the ground and swinging the blunt end of her knife into the side of his head before dodging out of reach once more.

The knight had unsheathed his sword, a longsword with an intricately carved hilt, not like the usual standard-issued hilts most Enderlands soldiers had. It was possible it had been an inherited gift, but it looked too new and bright for that. Who are you? Chaos wondered. The way he moved- it seemed so distinctly different from how the guards at the border had walked. This soldier, he seemed to step lighter than the others, seemed to move through the land rather than over it. He kept excellent balance, his feet moving nimbly as though he knew some secret topography, never falling. Chaos parried a sword swipe with her daggers. Blessed be Netherum for having such strong bones, they thought, laughing inwardly. At least it meant the soldier could not break her weapons.

Ducking a swipe, she managed to kick the stranger square in the chest, a sharp blow with the heel of their foot that send him sprawling to the ground. Tapping a little more of her Gift, they sent the sword flying out of his hand as well, then pinned him to the ground with one of the Netherite knives at his throat. He blinked up at her with those strange eyes, something like disbelief in his gaze. Probably thought he was sooooo good at fighting, Chaos thought, snorting quietly. He’s probably pompous and stuck-up like most humans, too. Wondering ‘oh no, how was I bested? I’m supposed to be the greatest warrior my kingdom has ever known! How could this have happened?’ Foolish human.

The stranger opened his mouth, probably to beg for mercy, the Sheith’ora guessed. Yet ANOTHER strange thing humans did. Rather than accept the fact that they were bested and that the victor had every right to kill them and have the honor go to them, they believed that if they CRIED and PLEADED and OFFERED RICHES BEYOND COMPARE their lives would be spared. And so, Chaos was waiting with anticipation and a twinge of twisted excitement, if she was being honest, to crush his hopes and dreams and then his rib cage. That was why it was such a surprise when he instead said, “How are you so fast?”

“Really?” the Godkiller asked, taken aback. “THAT’S what you want to be remembered for? THAT’S what you want your last words to be? Not, like, some cool expression or a praising of your stupid deities?”

The soldier shrugged as much as he could when there was a Sheith’ora pinning him down with a knife. “Eh. If I’m being honest, I think the only thing I want to know right now is how you moved that fast. Besides,” he said, loftily, “I’m sure you wouldn’t kill me.” He grinned at Chaos’s unimpressed and probably confused face. “I’m much too good to be killed.”

“THERE IT IS!” Chaos yelled at the sky. “ANOTHER STUNNING EXAMPLE OF HUMAN STUPIDITY AND EGO! GODS, HOW AM I NOT SURPRISED? COULD IT BE THAT THIS IS WHAT I WAS EXPECTING? SWEET KINAXUS, I CERTAINLY WONDER.”

The stranger laughed, a laugh that simultaneously made Chaos feel like she was back with her friends, with her Osh’ethatan, and that she wanted to claw off his face with a blunt axe for doing that. Stupid laugh. After a moment, his face faltered, the humor vanishing like the sun behind a cloud, face becoming quiet and shadowed in the night. “My newest acquaintance,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully, suddenly quite formal. “Be you deity? For you refer to my perfectly wonderful sense of humor as human stupidity- do you admit yourself to share in that same stupidity, or am I in the presence of a god?”

“Gods, no-” Chaos said, grimacing. “Please- never refer to me as that again. Actually, you’re going to die soon anyways, so I don’t think you’ll get the chance to. Regardless, if you refer to me as one of those Ilelka’tan again,” she spat out the Elspire insult like a rotten piece of meat, “I will make your death torture. I am not a human, nor am I a god- my name is Chaos Eprosidin, and I am a Sheith’ora.” The soldier’s face changed suddenly as she said the words, suspicion and anger and fear entering his gaze all at once, accompanied by an emotion they could not name, one like sadness and acceptance and… stubbornness? A strange feeling, to be sure. “I assume you have heard of us, Human?”

“Yes.” His response was quiet. “Yes, I have. My name is Centross, by the way- not that it matters. You’re probably going to slit my throat and leave me bleeding out like a stuck pig while you go and slaughter my queen.” He reached out with one hand towards their neck, but Chaos caught the arm, holding it back. “I… I was not going to do anything. I only wanted to see the necklace.” Realizing what he meant, Chaos pulled out the silver charm taken from the soldier on the Fableon border. “Where did you get this?” he whispered, softly. “Was it taken from my people? Did you slaughter an innocent man on the road?” That was closer to the truth than Chaos would have liked, but she stayed quiet. The man- Centross -sighed, letting go of the Sign and dropping his head back to the ground. “Alright. Go ahead. Kill me. It’s better than watching my kingdom topple to the ground, Godkiller.”

“No.” Chaos’s response rang out like a bird call as she stood, pushing herself to her feet and sheathing their knives. Confusion, bewilderment, and tentative hope crossed Centross’s face. “Centross of Whatever-Your-Family-House-Is, I formally extend the invitation of you to join me as a guide, an extra layer of protection, and to be spared from death. In return, I will spare one deity of your choice, until the day you die. Do you except?” There was a half-formed plan in the Sheith’ora’s mind, vague and fuzzy, but still a plan. If Chaos wanted to get through the Enderlands, she knew they would need more than the Sign of Anderian. They would need a knight, an Enderlands resident who knew the land and was able to safely provide the proper social marks and expectations.

Centross slowly got up. “One deity? If I help you kill the rest?” He dusted off his armor and retrieved his sword, pacing as he wiped the dirt from it. Those amethyst-colored eyes became glaze over as he thought, his agitated movements sending the grasses dancing in the moonlight like frost-burned stalks of heather in a Thricefire breeze. Chaos stared out over the gently waving plants and the trees that rustled the last of their flame-colored leaves together as she waited for his reply, lost in a world of color turned black and white and silver.

Yet another showing of how Epros had been an inferior deity to Kinaxus. The god of Energy gave light that illuminated the world in shade and hue, from carmine red and cochineal scarlet to threads of inky indigo and cobalt like the night sky in a single drop, liquid golden yellows and deepest mahogany browns that shimmered with thin gossamer webs of amber in the light. They were warmth and brightness and glowing stars and radiance itself. But Epros- Epros was a splash of dismal tints of ash and coal, soot and smoke stained and smeared across mirrors edged with iron and lead. They were that which darkened all things, which shaded all things in their shadow with the falling tears of the blackberry-colored void. They were in balance with Kinaxus- a dance, a tango between that which was opulent and that which was not, that which was dull and that which was lackluster than that which was brilliant, that which was vibrant and that which was bland. One required the other, for if there were no prismatic hues, the monotonous things would be natural, would be common, would be regular. We would not know what beauty truly meant if our world was all chalk-colored whites and coal-colored blacks and slate-colored grays. In the same way, the vibrancy of Kinaxus required the more neutral tones of Epros, or else the shimmering, alluring, dumbfounding hues of the Deity of the Sun would dull over time. They would not carry the same star-struck effect they did now. They would be come commonplace and cheap, like a copper penny turning dull over the years.

And so, she sat, staring out over the waves of grass that heaved and swelled and undulated like the briny deep of the sea, quiet hushing and hissing and whispering as the wind passed over them. Centross paused his pacing, looking at the plains with them for a long heartbeat. “I don’t want this to disappear,” he whispered, more to himself than to Chaos. “This country. This view. If they die, if Fable wins the war… this won’t be here anymore. It’ll be gone, stomped into the mud by a thousand pairs of boots and decimated by cities and industrial machines. They don’t see it the same way we do, Godkiller. They see this world as something to be used up, a mere resource to be taken and consumed and tossed aside like the bones of a deer. I do not claim to know why your race chooses to mutilate our gods, but it is in the same way that Fableon will decimate my people, should my gods die.” He turned to look down at her, and Chaos was surprised to see tears brimming in his mauveine eyes. “Sheith’ora, I will accept your offer, including the term that one deity of my choosing can and will be spared until my life ends.”

Chaos nodded. “I recognize this,” they said, the usual formal response to when a pact had been sealed, or, at least, in her people’s society. “Name the deity, Centross of the Enderlands.”

“You must hold your vow. Anderian cannot be harmed.” Chaos nearly laughed, she thought he was joking. Their smile faded when she noticed the serious, stone-cold expression on his face.

“You cannot be serious,” she said, rising to her feet. “Anderian must pay- she, she has been the primary target in my mind. She must pay for what she has done, to my people, to my kind, to ME! No, no- I- I cannot allow her to live, she must not live, she must feel that which has been done to me. She must taste death, she must choke on the blade of my knives, she must suffocate on her own blood as it trickles down her face, filling her lungs and coating her, inside and out- She must pay! I want her to feel as hopeless as I did,” Chaos snarled, trembling slightly. “I want her to bleed out upon the altar of the Ath’hala- I want her to die disgraced and dishonored, scorned and forgotten. I want her to suffer- I want her to regret and beg for forgiveness in front of me, I want her to cry until her tears burn her skin and her eyes are red with blood. I want her to cry out, I want her to scream to the heavens in her agony, shrieking out a plea for mercy, realizing it will not come. I want her to pay, Centross.”

He remained still and silent, his voice quiet when he spoke. “Godkiller, you have given me your word. She is the foundation of my people, of this country. If she dies, it will be carnage and death for us all. Please- honor the pact you have already sealed with an oath. You cannot harm her until the day I am dead.”

Chaos closed her eyes. She wanted so desperately to bury her knife in his neck, to flee into the night and make Anderian suffer. This was not fair, that she, a goddess, a criminal, a murderer of thousands, that she would get to live and continue on with her life whereas the Sheith’ora would never again be able to take another breath, to stare out across star-splattered heavens, to praise the name of Kinaxus with loud shouts and songs. It would only be for as long as Centross would be alive, a quiet voice chimed from the depths of her mind. If he should die… well, then anything is free game, even Anderian. It would be a shame if he were to die somewhere during the palace attack, after he has served his purpose.

Slowly, the Godkiller opened her eyes, meeting Centross’s gaze. “Very well, Centross. As long as you live, Anderian will be safe. She will not die until breath leaves your body. I warn you, knight. The day the last heartbeat pulses from your chest, I will be moving. Her heart will stop at the same time as yours. Her eyes will close when yours will. You cannot protect her forever, but you can protect her for a moment. My people live forever,” she said, not a full lie, but not the entire truth either. “I will wait for your pitiful human experience to end, and then I will hunt her down, wherever she be.”

Somewhere in her brain, the voice like chiming bells in the deep laughed slowly. And it might just be sooner than you think, Chaos Eprosidin.

Chapter Text

Day 7
Overworlds
Whitemist

Yesterday I had the pleasure of making my newest acquaintance-slash-business-partner: Centross Daevid of House Mistvale. He’s a knight from the Enderlands, a part of some special-forces. He said this is his first mission since the ‘promotion’, although I find that calling a forced moving from one task to the next a promotion quite funny, considering he did not have a choice nor did he a say in the matter. His queen simply ripped him from one place to the next, from one event to a different one, from one group of friends to a group of unfamiliar faces like he is simply a ragdoll, a puppet in the hands of a goddess.

And yet he STILL won’t let me kill her! It makes no sense! She’s a tyrannical war criminal who neither cares for nor wants to care for any of her subjects! She treats them like rubbish! Like slaves! Just slaves and soldiers as far as the eye can see! And yet he feels loyal to her! They all do! I don’t understand! How could anyone serve such heartless, cruel monsters? Also, maybe not serving them, but how could anyone stop someone from ridding them of such a dictator? Wouldn’t that be beneficial to everyone?

I do not know. Humans never cease to surprise me and amaze me with their blatant foolishness and misguided allegiances. They rely too heavily on their feelings and emotions. This is an excellent example, I think, of why my people promote such apathy when it comes to what we are experiencing on an emotional level. Yes, it’s a key part of our deity sensing, but I believe it’s also essential to prevent us from becoming attached to mortals, whether through allegiances or fondness.

We are a good thirty to forty miles into the Enderlands now. According to Centross, there’s a village not too far from here we can stop at for supplies, but I told him we should just keep going. We have food enough, still, and the streams in this country are pure enough to drink. I wonder if he sincerely thought we should stop or if he was attempting to figure out a way for me to be captured and killed. Fool. I still do not know how much he knows about my people, nor even how he does, but from what information I have managed to glean, we are something of a myth among commonfolk and a legend among the guards. How funny. I always thought of legends as dusty old scrolls telling of fantastical god-slaying heroes centuries ago, but now I find myself being called one of them. I do not know if I enjoy it.

And, frankly, I do not know if I deserve it. This is not grief, what I am feeling, nor guilt nor shame, but it is the simple acceptance that I was not there when my people needed me, and for that, I do not deserve to become a myth. I know that I am, partially, responsible for all of this, even if only in a fragmented way. Although I killed Epros, thus starting this entire genocidal mess, was I not ordered by Kinaxus themself to do it? Was it not a mission, one that Chaos had no power over? True, she had the opportunity to turn it down, but no sane Sheith’ora would do such a thing, for it meant being passed over and possibly never getting another chance. Lucky was Ion Gamgibidian, Slayer of the Deity of Color and Sight, first of the Osh’ethatan of Chaos to be sent on a mission. How we envied them, their position in our society afterwards. They came back different, their vision blurry from their time in Gamgibian’s aura. Older. Wiser. Distant. It was as though they were a piece taken from the puzzle that was my Osh’ethatan and came back too big to fit. They had responsibility and respect, more accepted as a full member of the Sheith’ora than the rest of our un-proven group.

For me, there was no one to return to, no one to accept me, no one to fit in with. They’re all dead, now- Havoc, Flare, Carnage, Volt, Ion- and Chaos. I died too, I think. I’m like the deities- knowing I was on borrowed time. I’m just a walking corpse, now. Staggering endlessly on a hopeless mission. Gods, I miss them all. I don’t know what I’m doing out here, associating with the enemy, even though I know I’ll just kill him later. Hunting deities that were strong enough to kill thousands of my people, people better and more powerful than I. My time is running short, but how can I do this if my people, my friends, my family, my Ya’eph, even my god- how can I do this if they’re all dead, their bones decaying into glowstone dust and their blood into redstone? They are far, far away from me. We are separated by a gap that cannot be bridged without my dying or their own lives being returned.

I am scared. I hate to admit this, I despise it. It is a sign of weakness, and yet it is true. My bones are strong as diamonds, and yet they seem flimsy and frail to my fear-stalked mind. My waking nights are shadowed by demons and ghosts, things I cannot see but know are there, just like the Windwraiths. My breath comes in short gasps, sometimes, my lungs shriveling inside of my chest like dying creatures. My stomach seems turbulent and writhing, turning over within me. I am crippled with terror in the dark, anxiety over the fact that I might fail, that I cannot do this, that I will die and the world will decay into ashes and soot, dying embers of a vanishing world slowly snuffing themselves out as they struggle to maintain their tiny, smoldering lives.

We’re all on borrowed time, aren’t we. I have to do this, I have to stop the deities from causing any more pain and death. I’m doing the right thing. I cannot fail, I cannot falter. My steps must be sure, my choices swift and decisive. I am the last flickering light in a world made of night and shadows, a light that cannot go out, it must not. It is a world of void, but I have killed the void before. I have slain it with my own hands. They must kneel. I must be victorious. I must not fail.

For if I do, if this void consumes me, if I cannot conquer it… Oh, Kinaxus, may your light ever prevent this from happening, for if it does, I do not know what will happen to your beloved world.

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It was morning, another day upon the miserable world in enemy territory, with breezes shaking the trees beyond a pale golden sea of wild grasses and coarse plants and scraggly bushes that pushed up from the rocks, trying to imitate their older, healthier, more thriving cousins that jostled together from within the tendrils of woodland that wrapped their green talons over the country. According to the friendly enemy, Centross, the forests petered out quickly, the lands around the capital city folded like rags and entirely made of fields

“You okay?” the friendly enemy in question asked from over where he was rolling up his bedroll. Chaos closed the ash-gray book, tucking it back into the pocket along her hip and replacing the quill around her neck. They were breaking camp, or, at least, Centross was. Chaos was already finished and had taken the remaining time to write in their Eil’vith. “You seemed a little… emotional, there, writing in your book. What is that, anyways?”

“It is my Eil’vith, Centross of House Mistvale,” she said, rising from her place on the flat ledge-like sheet of rock tucked in between the grass stalks and the weathered stones. “My book of days, a journal of sorts. I write in it, a record of all that happens. If I die, it is given to my family for them to read. It’s a very private thing, soldier-boy, so do not ask to read it.” They swung their pack onto her back. “Now, are we ready to go?” The Enderlands resident fastened his bedroll onto the bottom of his own pack, a slimmer, longer, heavier-looking rucksack than Chaos’s own.

He squinted at her with those violet eyes as though he could not quite figure out if she was joking or not. “I wasn’t going to ask, actually. But yes, I am ready.” The two began to walk in silence, heading towards the rising sun that was beginning to glimmer over the mountains, pale light reflecting off of wisps of white clouds in shades of snow and ice. It was a peaceful morning, with the wind rustling through the fields and swaying the patches of forests and briskly blowing across pointed ranges of stone peaks that ringed them on all sides. “It sounds interesting, actually,” Centross continued after they had traveled in quiet for a few minutes, breaking the calm. “Your Eel-whiff or whatever. Do all of your people have them?” The Shieth’ora nodded hesitantly. She had still not told him the real reason behind her flight to the Overworlds, or how her people had been slaughtered. Something told her not to say anything yet, although they didn’t know why.

“Yes.” Her voice was soft and hushed, like a whisper of a breath across the sky. “Eil’viths- and yes, all of my people carry them. They are sacred, in a way- a copy of an individual’s entire life, from start to finish, begun after every important, momentous event in their time here on this world. Only the Godkiller’s immediate family and Kinaxus are ever allowed to read the contents inside. The old ones are burned in the Ath’hala, the Shrine, upon golden flames that flash and burn like stars in the sky, gilded tongues of fire in smooth white marble and moon-pale quartz.”

He made a noncommitted noise, brow scrunched in thought. “Strange- but, I mean, I live in a society that doesn’t really HAVE stuff like that so….” He shrugged. “I don’t know. ‘Strange because it is unfamiliar’, I guess. I’m just not used to this stuff. My people don’t have a lot of customs- small things, perhaps, but… nothing like what your people do. Tell me more,” he said, a wistful expression on his face, as though he was starving with longing for a life he would never live nor never would be able to experience.

Chaos smiled, despite herself, remembering happier times throughout their lifetime. “My people’s customs… We had festivals every full moon, a celebration of when Kinaxus’s power over Epros. We used to view the Moon as Epros, you understand, and the Sun was Kinaxus watching over us for a while before they retired more fully. So, when the moon was full, it was when Kinaxus’s light was strongest in overcoming Epros’s view, and we would celebrate. We would gather by the Ath’hala, light torches with that golden fire and dance in mist-like clothes like wraiths of the night, swirling our burning torches above our head as we would swirl and move, painting the night in a thousand colors like golden sheen obsidian.

“And we had ceremonies and festivals on the solstices and the equinoxes too, bringing in the new seasons and celebrating the ones which had just passed. On the Brightblossom equinox, we dived into the cold sea and stood beneath snow-water-filled waterfalls while singing a farewell to the cold months. We would release pale doves to the sky like flinging clouds into the air, our hopes and dreams for the new times tied to one leg, a single dove for each Shieth’ora. If the doves came back, it meant our wishes would come true. If the dove flew away and did not return, it meant they would not. I can remember being a little girl, wishing upon those star-colored doves that I would be remembered for years to come. My bird… it never returned.

“For the Thricefire solstice, we threw flowers into the ocean, a thousand for every ten of my people. The sea was filled with petals in all colors and shapes and sizes,” the Sheith’ora said, lost in the memory of the last solstice. “Our priestesses would do something called the Hal’lael, the Noise. Something between a yell and a howl and a song, like heathen mortals yowling into the night. It would carry over the waves on the shoulders of the Mists, borne to distant shores like haunting nightingales singing in the storms. We would swim out in boats into the warm, fogged ocean with the spray coating us in watered salts, and we would respond with our own Hal’lael, a responding cry that would meld with the crashing of the waves and the calls of the seabirds and the yells of our own people, a web of sound and calls and answers that bound us together in invisible threads.

“And for the Lightfade solstices, we would not sleep that night- we would set ablaze a bonfire and gather with wide, rimless mirrors in our hands, special mirrors we called Oi’ianathel, or Reflections. And we would send our Sheith’ora out the next day, usually- it was a day of preparations, of farewells, and of remembering what had happened the last year. We kept fires burning all night, tended them until the morning came, and put the out the moment the first rays of dawn touched our land through the Mist. It was a sign, a symbol of the light darkening again, bringing us towards the frozen times. And for the Frosthaven…” She trailed off, remembering that this year and for the centuries onward, there would be no Frosthaven festival this year, or any year.

There would be no festivals, no dancing, no bonfires ever again. It was a history lost to time, hanging on to the real world by a single gossamer thread bound to snap: Chaos.

“What happened?” Centross asked, a mix of worry and dismay on his face, such a strange thing to see after months of expressionless travel, in between the hunt for Epros and after the Scattering. “You were finally opening up, getting more comfortable with talking… Oh gods- did I do something?”

Chaos shook their head, amber and mahogany locks flashing in the rising sun. “No, Centross of House Mistvale, you did nothing. I just… got caught up in the future, again.”

He frowned, confused by what they meant, but did not press the matter. Grass swished beneath the two’s feet as the moved, beginning the slow ascent of the mountain in front of them. Discussing the past had made time fly like fireflies, the landscape flowing past like water through a stream, slipping behind her field of view like a waterfall plunging over the edge. They were now moving up the face of a steep rise, one made of packed dirt and jutting rocks and swirling dust that clouded around their boots as they climbed. The sun began to rise more, the temperature rising slightly as they went, although the mountain still shaded them from the full effect.

As they reached the top, Centross sat with his back against a tree, slinging off his pack and dropping it to the ground. “Break time, Godkiller,” he sighed, contentedly stretching out. “See, if you had agreed to go to the village, we wouldn’t have had to walk up this mountain,” he teased, jerking his head towards the thin valley that snaked alongside a twisting river that cut through the mountains. It was the path to the aforementioned village that Chaos had written about in their Eil’vith that morning, the one that she had made the executive decision not to go to in case Centross was trying to betray them. In fairness, I AM betraying him myself, she thought with a twinge of guilt. Then again, they weren’t betraying him in the sense of turning him over to the authorities- more of just…. Getting him killed.

“Aw, is the big-bad Enderlands soldier tired after just a little walk?” laughed Chaos back, slumping against a tree of her own, chuckling at his minorly offended expression and letting her rucksack thump to the ground beside her. The leather pouches poked them uncomfortably, but their goal wasn’t sleep- the Shieth’ora had Kinaxus to thank for that. No, it was letting their mind and body simply… not have to do anything, for a little while. “Get used to it, House Mistvale- we’re going to be walking a LOT.”

“Gods, why did I sign up for this?” Centross jestingly groaned into his hands, smoothing back his hair that tried to hang in front of his eyes. “Also- House Mistvale is certainly NOT a Centross-Approved nickname, please, PLEASE for the love of Anderian, choose another one!” He rustled through his bag, pulling out an apple and chewing on it thoughtfully, looking over the view from the top of the mountain and holding the apple outwards awkwardly as he leaned his head on his hand, trying not to get sticky juice from the fruit all over his face and hand.

Chaos let themself give a small smile before closing their eyes and retreating back into their brain. “House Mistvale it is,” they said, letting their body relax for a little while. It is rather nice, I suppose, to have someone else around, even if he is annoying in the aspect that he makes me trust him. I can actually close my eyes for a while and not have to worry about anything- except him. He might actually kill me at some point. That, I might have to worry about.

“You’re not going to sleep, are you?” the soldier asked, crunching through his apple like the cracking of stone. She could almost hear his grin through the noise as he said, “Or is the big-bad Shieth’ora tired after just a little walk?”

“If you say one more word,” the Godkiller said with a slight smile, “I will throw you off the cliff with no regrets and no remorse and will go kill your government on my own, without you- and yes, that includes Anderian. Now shut up and eat your apple, House Mistvale.”

Chapter Text

Day 10
Overworlds
Blackmist

We are tired, but we have made good progress. Already, we are a third of the way to the capital city, and our pace quickens as time goes on. Centross has begun to be used to the distance we cover every day, his half-joking complaining stopping.

There is little to nothing to report- only walking, a single step after a single step. I require no sleep, but I am still tired. I write this now while my companion is asleep, while it is only me on watch, the waning bone-like moon sinking towards the mountains to the west, the wind tossing my cloak in the wind with the grasses. I never thought I’d say this, but it is… lonely to not hear another voice talk, now. I experienced this same phenomenon the first few days of my travels to Husk Epros, and I experience it now. I have gotten so used to hearing his constant joke-cracking, his thirst for knowledge about my people and my customs, his blatant curiosity about the Sheith’ora. I find myself wondering if this truly is the right thing, if I have to kill him.

No- no, no, no. I must remain focused on the goal, on vengeance for my people and the blood-price being paid. I cannot, WILL not become distracted in my path. I must strive to maintain the apathy that my people value and I could never fully attain. He is a pawn, Chaos. A pawn in a game he cannot win and cannot survive. One way or another, he will die- all his kind do, whether in battle or when their old hearts finally simply let go. I must remember this, I must hold fast to this thought. They are not like my people- my people did not die unless killed. They were safer to form attachments to. Those who die after a fixed ninety years-or-so are not safe to befriend or care for. When they die, it will leave me alone once more, in more brutal pain than before. No, I cannot ever care for anyone ever again, for the only beings who will not die, other than me, are the gods, and they must be slaughtered.

I must remain a wandering soul, an island drifting in the water, a single albatross flying alone among sea spray and fog. If I stop, I will only be hurting myself more in the long run. I must cut myself off, stop interacting with him- with anyone -in a way that is anything but brisk and business-like. They’re all pawns, and I must be the bishop. I cannot sacrifice the king to save the pawns.

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Day 12
Overworlds

Little to report. We have officially made it half-way into Enderlands territory and are currently camped out at the foot of a mountain, about to head down into a valley where Centross claims there is a village. He has convinced me to stop there, and I have reluctantly agreed. I doubt he could stop me from killing his gods if he tried. I have the Gift of Speed, and the sleepless nights all Sheith’ora have inherited. He could not catch me if I truly wanted to kill Anderian. But I would also break my oath, even if he betrayed me first.

We Sheith’ora take oaths seriously. We see them as divine promises, a forever-bonding string which keeps us tied to the other person until the oath is fulfilled. To break an oath is to betray our god, to sacrifice a piece of our soul into the void for payment of the wrongdoing. No, I cannot break my oath. I can, however, break HIM.

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Day 13
Overworlds
Blackmist

We have reached the outskirts of the valley village. Tomorrow, we will enter the town, but for tonight, we are camped out in a nearby forest. I took watch- again. It’s more peaceful this way, a time for me to be alone with my thoughts- even that strange, foreign voice in my head, although I have not heard it in quite a few days. Besides, I have not slept in… what has it been, now- eight days? If I sleep now, that’s eight days we lose. We cannot afford that. We are so close, now, only two or three days away from the capital. I tire of being out here, where nothing new happens and nothing ever changes. Something makes me nervous about entering a town of humans again, something I cannot shake. It is like a pit in my stomach is opening up to swallow me whole.

Gods, what was I thinking? Tomorrow, Centross will most likely betray me and I will be killed without ever striking down another deity. It’s too late to back out now- I have to do this right. I have to survive. I hope he certainly doesn’t think I haven’t noticed how he’s been trying to get to me open up, to disarm me emotionally and mentally, to make me trust him more. He acts inquisitive, asking me question after question about my culture, my people, my customs, always having me talk and talk and think and speak and remember. He thinks I do not notice how he notes my weapons and where they are stored. He thinks I do not cast suspicion on him because I recruited him.

Foolish human mortal soldier- I see more than what these two eyes can view. I note how he hurriedly changes topics when he thinks I have become uncomfortable or closed off. I notice how he tries to make jokes to hide things about his past or what he used to do or be. I note the little huffs and small eyerolls he gives when I talk about deities and how I hate them.

Centross Daevid Mistvale of the Enderlands is smart- but he is not smart enough to fool me.

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Mud sucked at the edges of Chaos’s boots as she walked alongside the curving river that snaked its way in between the mountains. They are tired, worn out from having to be on alert around Centross at all times, but they know they cannot sleep, for the days it would take to reclaim their lost week would be long and unneeded. They find it unfair that Centross can move easily beside her- tired, yes, but… calm. Unnerved. Unworried. HE does not have to worry about his companion backstabbing him. HE is not concerned about being betrayed and having his mission ended. He only questions and asks and ponders and wears Chaos out with constant speech and talk.

“So… I’m sorry- tell me again,” Centross said, running to catch up, sending tiny, smooth river pebbles clattering around in his wake, “how do you kill gods? Or, well- claim to kill gods? I know, I’m a guard, I’ve heard about you Sheith’ora all the time, but…”

Chaos rolled their shifting eyes, sighing. “Not claim. I have. And not gods- god. Singular. It was only one, come on. Centross, we’ve been over this.” Her attention shifted to the cherry-bright bird sitting on the tree, its intelligent, lava-colored eyes watching their every move as they passed with something that did not seem natural. They shrugged it off, dismissing it as yet another one of the Overworld’s strange but normal happenings, tucking it away into the mental box of ‘This is weird but probably completely common, I’m just socially inept’.

“Okay…” he said slowly, brow furrowed as he tried to understand. “Fine. One god. Still- you killed a god? That seems… impossible. Nearly contradictory. Scratch that, completely contradictory. You realize you’re talking about murdering something that literally cannot be harmed? At all?” He waved his hands an unnecessary amount, it seemed, as he talked. Perhaps this was normal, for Upper World residents, but to Chaos, it seemed… distracting. Like waving a shiny coin in front of a crow. “What god did you even ‘kill’?”

“Epros.” She said stiffly, getting increasingly annoyed, finding distraction in yet another strange creature, this time a sort of four-legged mammal with long, branching horns coming out of its head, and yet a very short tail. They stumbled over a washed-up log, not looking where she was going, narrowly catching themself on an overhanging tree branch, sending the last two amber leaves fluttering to the ground.

Centross choked on air. He doubled over, coughing, sounding like he was either trying to summon an entire mountain range from his lungs or that he was maybe on the brink of death. The Godkiller watched, a lightly concerned expression on her otherwise unintrigued and uninterested face. After about twenty seconds, the knight managed to regain his composure, managing to stand up and stare at Chaos with a strange combination of disbelief, fear, and utter awe. “Okay- I’m sorry, but if- are you serious? Because Epros is a Primordial.”

“Yes, yes, I think I’m aware of that,” Chaos sighed, pricking up the pace, forcing Centross to scramble after her.

“Yes, you probably do- I… should’ve thought about that. But… not to be rude or anything here, and this certainly isn’t me thinking you’re like, weak or helpless or any of that, and I’m not trying to say that you are inadequate in this situation but… How in the name of the Four Kingdoms did you kill a PRIMORDIAL?!” A tiny flock of small, delicate sparrows erupted from nearby, flitting away and chirping a warning loudly, startled by the outburst of Centross, who seemingly either did not notice or did not care. “I thought Primordials were supposed to be all-powerful or something. They created all of this, after all,” he commented waving his hands around the valley on a showcasing-gesture. “It’s not every day that you hear about someone killing a deity who created the entire dang universe.”

“How DO you know about Sheith’ora in the first place, Centross?” Chaos asked. “I know you said they’re ‘something of a myth’ among your people but… what, exactly, have you heard?”

He shrugged. “Bits and pieces, mainly. We’ve all heard the name, but theories abound as to what you actually are. Minor deities, jealous spirits, half-gods, vengeful creatures, or simply just… non-existent. We’ve been told you possess some kind of power over deities that let you kill them, something mortal humans don’t have, but no one really knows exactly what, either. Let’s see, what else… no one knows where you live, you pop up ever few decades to slaughter a deity, no one has ANY idea of what you even look like, you caused the downfall of Aethercadena, and I don’t want you to kill Anderian because, if you do, my entire country can and will disintegrate into the dust of this world.”

They furrowed their brow, confused. “You keep saying that, but what do you even MEAN, your country will fall apart if she dies? I know, I know- you said something about death and destruction and doom the night I roped you into this whole scheme, but how could the death of one goddess kill your world?”

“It…” The soldier hesitated, unsure how to phrase it. “Think of it as the same way with Alerion and Aethercadena. When Alerion was felled by a Shieth’ora, no one could fill in the space he left. He was the heart of his nation, beloved by all. No one knew how to manage everything the way he did, no one could speak the language of that world quite so well. He left a large shadow across Aethercadena, and it was one no light could brighten. Our counties- Netherium, the Enderlands, and Fableon -we all realized how weak they were and… well, we moved in. However, not even Netherum and Anderian and Fable together could fill the space their brother left. We weren’t built for it. No one was. And now, Aethercadena doesn’t really… exist. No one wants to try and conquer it, no one is able to rule it, and no one can survive within it.

“Chaos, we’re in the middle of a war, if you haven’t noticed. Fable has been trying to encroach on his sister’s, our Lady Anderian’s, land for centuries. We’ve been fighting like Earth and Sea, never wanting to give up but never able to win. For a while, it was a trade war, an unofficial, silent war. Now, it’s threatening to boil over. You’ve seen the borders- you’ve seen how many soldiers there are now. We’re not here by choice, we’re here by draft, by command of our rulers. We don’t want a war- they do. Our Queen and their King. But if you kill Anderian, if you remove our figurehead, we’re not going to be able to survive, not as long as Fable exists. He is a ruthless god, Chaos. He will sweep in, burn our lands, take captive our people, and make slaves of us all. Anderian is ruthless as well, but she is necessary to balance out Fableon’s king. She loves her country like no one else, a love that only a goddess can have. She would fight for us, she would die for us if she knew we would survive. But killing her would not do anything. It would only bring Fable closer to world domination.

“Netherium is neutral at the moment, but how long do you think that will last after the Enderlands are gone. Queen Soul is not stupid. She knows that, if Fable gets control of the Enderlands, her treaties and neutrality will not be enough, not when he has that kind of power. Do you really want Fable as the king of three countries, of the whole world, Godkiller? It will be a fight none of us can win, even you. If you are wise, if you want a world free of gods, you cannot kill Anderian. She is all that stands between a power-hungry, ambitious, pitiless deity and the entire continent at his feet, and he will not be a kind ruler.”

Silence fell as the two walked in quiet thoughts, the one pondering the words of the other. Words filtered through Chaos’s mind, memories and scrolls and words said long ago. Is he right? she wondered. This whole time, ever since he made me promise to let Anderian live, I’ve been planning on backstabbing and killing him so I could do it anyways, but… what if he’s right? What if Anderian is the one thing that I need to keep alive? If this is true, if I HAVE to help her survive… Sweet Kinaxus, this changes a LOT.

You do not have to let her live- you can kill Fable as well, you know. The unfamiliar voice trickled into her head again, thoughts like knives of ice piercing their brain and spreading like dark moss, shading the world and dimming it into oblivion. Do not let the fool of a knight poison your brain, child. He knows nothing beyond his own wants and needs. He cannot see the bigger picture, not like you or I can. Do not trust his honeyed speeches of rose-light futures, for they are nothing more than mist in the sunlight, fading quickly, never coming to fully be. He will die. You will not, not if you do not want to. That is the gift your ancestor bestowed unknowingly upon the Shieth’ora, correct? The infinite span of life, unless touched by sickness or the sword?

You tell me not to trust him, and yet I do not even know who you are, Chaos observed, becoming less of the world around them. You claim to know about his future, and mine, but you seem mostly unfamiliar with the traits of my kind. Why is that, may I ask? Who are you, to be a seer and yet not understand simply parts of the world and how they work?

The voice scoffed and warned, Do not mock things beyond your understanding, Godkiller. I may not understand all of the strange quirks of Kinaxus’s hellspawn, but I certainly know about YOU. I should. As for who I be, think of me as your guiding shadow, forever following you, offering you sage advice and warnings for what your path in the future will hold. You have little idea what goes beyond the reaches of your vision, what happens in the folds of the void where light cannot penetrate and eyes cannot perceive. When you learn to see beyond yourself and your physical world, then you will earn the right to the knowledge of who I am. Until then, Child of Kinaxus, you would be wise to listen to the counsel I give, for it will lead you well.

That is not an answer, they argued.

It is answer enough for now. You have a dark walk ahead, and it is my duty and curse to have to guide you through it. You are, after all, the only reason I still exist, if your kind is also the reason I stopped to be present in the reality of this world. Remember that, whenever you doubt my guidance and my motives, for that day will come, and I believe it will be far more common and frequent than I would like. Your best interest is my best interest, at least for now. I may not see the future, only derive logical conclusions from that which I can see, but I think there will be a time where you and I have the same goals as I, if it has not come already.

Why are you so pressed that I Husk the gods?

The voice did something like a sigh, if a non-existent, noncorporeal collection of thoughts could sigh. There your thoughts go, spinning wild theories and believing I have ulterior motives. Perhaps I want you to grow in your own abilities. Perhaps I hate the gods. Perhaps I want others to experience this torture which I presently go through. Or perhaps I just want blood to be shed upon the earth- that is for you to decide, for now. And Godkiller, remember that I can indeed see that which you think, beyond the conversation you loudly project through your head. Not all of us are as limited in our perception as you.

A sudden touch on her shoulder jolted them out of their dimmed world, ripping them from the trance-like space where she had been. “Chaos?” For a spinning, wild moment, the Shieth’ora struggled to place the face looking at her. It was disorienting, staring straight at a familiar head of hair the color of dirt after rain and eyes like piercing jewels and yet being completely unable to recognize it. “Are… you okay? You looked a little space-y… are you alright?”

“Centross,” she said out loud, placing the name with the face.

The knight gave her a slightly concerned look. “Yes?”

She hesitated, then shook their head, laughing a little. “Nevermind- I was just thinking.” If one can call holding a conversation with an eldritch, disembodied voice that seems to occasionally barge into their head for an argument and to spew a bunch of cryptic mumbo-jumbo while dragging one into a shadow realm before vanishing again ‘thinking’, they thought dryly. “Forget it, House Mistvale,” they commented, picking up the pace down the river. “We need to reach that village before I start getting possessed.”

Chapter Text

Day 14
Overworlds
Whitemist

Today, we will enter this village. Centross calls it ‘Where-The-Herons-Cry’, which is perhaps a fitting name for this place, albeit a bit wordy, for indeed, long-beaked birds in glossy colors of swamp green and ice blue line the river, dipping their bills into the shimmering water and pulling out tiny fish in flashes of sun-filled droplets. I find them beautiful, for even though they are not as perfectly graceful as the moon-bright auks I can see wheeling overhead, their sharp calls piercing the sky. This is a beautiful place; it is quite obvious why the settlers built their homes and lives here. The mountains rise to the north and south, with the sun rising in the east between the peaks. The air is crisp and cool, promising rains to swell the river which flows gently among the aventurine grass and smoothed cat-colored pebbles. The village is set where there is a bend in the brook, to the left of it, but it appears they expanded as Where-The-Herons-Cry grew, for bridges connect it to a smaller wing of the town on the far bank.

My heart pounds- with exhilaration or fear or nervousness, I know not what. I find my hands shaking as I write, which is why this page is in such a sorry state, ink blots and black splatters and probably illegible handwriting. I am thankful Centross is too busy packing his bedroll to notice my trembling, for he would likely spring one of his ‘I’m so concerned about you please tell me all of your life secrets’ acts- I am tired of answering his questions, tired of patiently responding to an endless onslaught of call and response.

He is done packing- It’s time to go.

------------------------------------------------

The pair approached the city as the sun began to climb above the mountains, turning the air warm and burning off the dew. It was not a particularly large village, although it spanned both sides of the river. The buildings were made from wood, cobble, and the pale off-white rock found in this region known as Endstone. Several towers spiraled above the rest of the town, one of which appeared to be a sundial tower and another holding a large bronze bell. There were no real city walls- the village seemed to creep up on them, the first signs being the packed dirt walkways that branched outwards from the main paths.

They passed several houses where residents repaired their doors and watched children and split wood on thick blocks and the smells of savory stews drifted out from the open windows. A few people nodded to them, or gave them a brief, warm smile, then returned to their busy lives and their everyday work. Children darted by calling greetings and challenges to each other, tossing taunts and laughing. Brightly colored balls made of dyed pig’s bladder flew by, bounced from knees and elbows and smacked by firm palms and clenched fists. One such red ball was thrown towards Chaos, who caught it, turned it over for a moment, then pitched it back to the child, who laughed and waved before dashing off to join the groups of children once more.

“I’ve never experienced something like this,” the Godkiller breathlessly told Centross. “My own childhood was very different- more focused on weapons and combat than balls and jacks.” She watched as a boy slipped on the cobblestones, only to be helped up by his friend a moment later. Something akin to a ghost of a smile drifted across their face. “We were told to pick ourselves up, to rely on ourselves and only ourselves and that others were unreliable and could not focus when their attention was divided between an enemy and a fallen ally. I wonder if those lessons were better than letting these kids scream and run, but… I also cannot help but question whether I would have enjoyed my early years more if I was able to count on others.”

Centross opened his mouth, searching for something to say, but there seemed to be no words he could tell Chaos, and he was saved from having to do so by the two reaching the main marketplace of the town.

Temporary booths and permanent shops alike jostled for space in the hub of activity, brightly striped awnings and colorful banners advertising seamstresses and exotic fruits and wood. A fish seller pushed his cart through the middle, calling loudly for ‘freshest fish in all of the four countries’ and trying to catch passerby’s attention. They passed a booth made of dark purple cotton covering and spruce wood selling incense, the smell of frankincense and copal drifting outwards, catching on their clothes in fragrant wafts of smoke. A shop sign hanging above nearby showed a map with a lodestone compass, showing it to be a mapmaking store.

A beautiful fountain carved from stone stood in the middle, a depiction of a gently smiling woman in a white blouse and leather overalls sat on the ground, a book propped open on her knee and a lantern beside her. Delicately carved flowers ran up from her neck, floating on the surface of the water which flowed from the woman’s head, probably representing hair. The liquid ran down her back and swirled inside of the lantern, which had glass panes around the edges to show the flowing bubbles and the jets of water moved by redstone. A few people sat along the edges of the stone basin beneath the statue, but there was a space where the Sheith’ora was able to approach, dropping to her knees and tracing a finger over the letters carved deeply into the side.

In loving memory of Strawberri ‘Momboo’ Pine: Mother, Sister, Savior, Friend.

“I wonder who she was,” Centross murmured from behind her. “Probably a founder of the village or a resident who was popular.” Chaos frowned. She had been hoping he would know who this Strawberri character was and why she had been given such a position of honor within the village. It was aggravating, in a sense, to be placed in a world you knew little about and yet could not get a question in edge-wise, thanks to the stream of inquiries from a companion.

A blur of movement attracted their attention. By the mapmaker, Chaos noticed a pair of… interesting looking hybrids. The first was a shorter merfolk with fluffy purple hair and yellow eyes, with fins behind their ears and strange patches of what might be fish or dragon scales on their arms and up their neck. They wore a loose white pirate-like shirt and dark pants, barefoot with sharp fin-spines on their heels. They caught the Godkiller’s eye and elbowed the second figure, a nearly eight-foot-tall person with black hair and void-like eyes who was clad in black with a myriad of trinkets and silver jewelry covering the dark fabric. It frowned, then noticed Centross and Chaos. Their eyes narrowed and they turned to speak to what looked like empty air. After a long second, there was a blur, as though some ghost was moving away from the two hybrids, nothing more than a ripple in the fabric of reality that vanished into nothingness.

The fish and the tall one conversed for a moment, quietly, their voices faintly reaching the traveling pair, too low for them to understand. Finally, the black-haired one spread shadowed feathered wings Chaos hadn’t noticed before, dark as night, and shot into the air like a falling black star, wheeling around a building in a gust of wind and heading towards one of the thin towers where yet another person with insect-like wings and something vaguely resembling antennae waited.

“Strange,” Centross mumbled, “but not rare. We have a lot of hybrids around here, children and grandchildren of shulker-spirits and Endermen.” He pointed across the plaza, where, sure enough, a tall, dark-skinned man with glowing purple eyes and dark glasses was buying chorus fruit. Chaos watched as he paid with clinking copper coins and then disappeared, the world where he had stood flickering briefly as though glitching in and out of perception, a slight purple tint like the aura of a god coloring that space as well.

“Alright,” they said, shaking herself. “We need supplies, mainly food, but I’ll see if we can secure some kind of transport as well.” He nodded and they moved away, heading to a nearby red-covered stall. Inside, there was a shorter man with an assortment of strange fruits she did not recognize. She had no idea what to buy from it, so it was probably better to let the Enderlands native pick. “Can you handle this stall on your own?” Centross’s head dipped in acknowledgement. Darting away, Chaos weaved through the crowd like a fish in a stream, brushing shoulders with others and inwardly shivering at how strange this casual form of contact with complete strangers felt. The sensation seemed to linger on her skin long afterwards, like the touch of a poltergeist.

They weren’t entirely sure what they were looking for- a means of transportation, yes, but the Enderlands was such a strange place and she did not know where to begin. Did they use boats? Horses? Mules? Pigs? Did they swim? Or did they never leave the safety of the confines of their small village, never venturing out into the world beyond? That was, after all, what you were planning on doing, before you were assigned Epros to Husk, was it not? her brain whispered at her- their thoughts, this time, not the entity that came and went. That was different! Chaos argued back at herself. I didn’t HAVE a choice. I never expected to be picked to kill a god- I didn’t WANT to kill a god. I thought Havoc would be chosen, not ME. You don’t leave the Otherworld, not unless you’re Husking a deity, so it makes sense that I never expected this!

In their mental argument, Chaos had wandered through the streets and was now stopped at the end of an alley, a cul-de-sac of sorts were throngs gathered, pushing against one another as they moved towards the shops. She found herself being swept along in the crowds like a leaf in a stream, tossed and turned. Moving quickly, they managed to separate themself from the masses, stumbling out in front of an older-looking store. Without thinking, Chaos opened the antique wooden door and stepped inside to blissful silence and light that was not nearly as bright. A bell above the door jingled as it closed, alerting a young woman behind a glass counter too look up in surprise.

“Oh- hello.” Her voice was soft and quiet, like the hush of a Frosthaven midnight, tainted with an accent that blurred her words together like fogged ice. She had slate-colored hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders and brushed the knot of her apron, strangely bright yellow eyes peering out from behind thick, dark lashes. She looked young, although Chaos was not a good judge of time for the short-lived humans, perhaps nearing her twentieth year. A loose, short-sleeved dark gray dress hung around her, the pleated folds held in place by a storm-hued leather belt embossed with silver patterns like teeth and paws. She moved again, stepping outwards into the light more, and the Shieth’ora realized that instead of human or pointed ears, she had two wolf-like ones on top of her head. “Forgive me… we do not often get customers here.”

Chaos gave her a small smile, stepping forward and extending one hand. “Chaos Eprosidin.”

She took it. “Hope, daughter of Lycan, spirit of the timber wolf.” That explained the ears, at least. She gestured around to the shop, saying, “What can we do for you today?” Now that Chaos’s eyes were adjusting more, they could see that it was a rather cozy room, walls of cases and trunks and barrels and chests, low tables with convex pieces of glass and thin metal tools with pointed edges and scatterings of jewels and crystals and rough-faced rocks. Light from hanging lanterns glinted off of the hidden facets of amethyst geodes displayed along the shelves. Cases of glass held beautifully wrought pieces of jeweled art, colorful necklaces and pins and knives and rings placed proudly within their clear cages.

“My mother creates these,” Hope said, casting a faint smile to the winding wooden staircase in the corner. “A mortal human, one who creates beauty out of the dusty rocks of the earth. All of these gems are found by her herself, these small treasures made by her hands, by her nimble fingers. I have helped her since my father vanished about five years ago, learning her trade and slowly practicing my own jewelcraft.” Her fingers skimmed one of the pieces, a smooth silver dagger with wine-dark sapphires set into the hilt.

Chaos walked past the cases, feasting her eyes upon the works within. Emerald and jade belts, amber rings, gold bracelets, rose quartz necklaces, aventurine and seaglass hilts, each pieces faceted and more intricately crafted than the last. Their eye caught on one specific piece: a pair of dragonfly wings made from a stone which looked desperately familiar. She seized the piece, staring at the waxy texture of the stone, as though coated with honey, feeling her heartrate triple.

“Ma’am?” Hope asked. “Are you alright?” Chaos looked up, barely hearing her through the pounding of her heart in her ears. There was fear on the young woman’s face, concern for the Shieth’ora, not fear for herself. Air became hard to get, the world a blurring whirl around them. Pinprickles of light like suns edged their vision, bright as distant moons and swirling like falling stars. A single sighing voice, becoming annoyingly familiar, pulsed slowly through her head as the darkness closed in.

Oh goodness… here we go again.

---------------------------------------------------

The world is dim and dismal, and it is cold. Chaos opened their eyes to frosty waves pounding the beach in front of them, spiraling stone cliffs made of pale stone weathered smooth by millennia of crashing ocean spray and ashy skies. Scraggles of ivy and fern struggle up through the beach and the patches of dirt by the sheer cliffs, fronds and leaves dark against the colorlessness of the stone and sand, defying every challenge and hardship the world throws at them, desperate to survive in a hostile environment where the water is as salty as tears and the ground is as fertile as a desert.

The sun is hidden by thick clouds, wisps of mist curling around the Sheith’ora like a cat, drawn to the taste of a Primordial’s blood running through her veins. The chilly breeze brushes their skin in a cool rush of contact, the crisp, sharp air filling their lungs like the sails of a ship. They move, and it is as though the entire universe shifts with them, the sand and the sea and the sky changing with them. A single crane shrieks loudly as it flaps overhead, disappearing behind the cliffs, its eerie cry echoing back to Chaos.

They recognize this place- the northern-most shore of the Otherworld, the place closest to the other continent. It is a beach rarely walked, hard to reach due to the sheer cliffs ringing it on the land side. And yet, footsteps lead away from the Godkiller, vanishing around the corner of the overhang. Slowly, then picking up speed, they begin to follow them, reaching the end of the footprints to find… nothing. Empty space, only beach and rock and ocean. There is only a slightly colder effect to the air, as though the northern gales blow harder in this specific spot.

You remember this well, do you not? The voice comes as though there is someone standing right in front of them, but Chaos can see no one. You won’t be able to find me, it warns as she peers around, for I am not even here. Then again, neither are you- entirely, that is. You are, as far as you are currently concerned, standing on the tip of your world that is closest to the lands your physical body currently lies limply in. I was not expecting your memories to bring us here, but it is an agreeable place to meet. Tell me, Godkiller, how do you feel?

“…Fine.” They keep their words guarded and short, although they are not entirely sure how they really are feeling. In fact, other than the cold brush of the wind and the slight spray of the sea, she cannot feel anything at all. It is as though what the voice said was true, as though they really were not entirely present. “Do you mind telling me where we are? I know you have already said where, but… what do you mean, my memories brought us here?”

Child, do you not remember? Gods, I swear they get stupider with every passing generation. You were in the gem store, remember? With that wolf-person, Hope? And you picked up the wings? And then you blacked out? Do not tell me that you have forgotten everything that has happened to you, because it has been hard enough of a challenge to even reach your mind for so long. I do not desire to waste my time reeducating you on every detail that has passed.

“I remember- and I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just call me stupid, for both our sakes. I’m wondering HOW I am here, if my physical self lies still in another reality.”

You know what the wings were made of, correct? Chaos nodded. Good. As you can believe, once you earn the right to know who exactly I am, I despise the stuff. When you touched that, two things happened. The first is you realizing that it must have come from a Shieth’ora and wondered where and how Hope came to own it. The second was the crystal recognizing me as mental energy and attempting to capture me within itself. As I use you as a conduit, it took a toll on you as well. The long story short is that I managed to save the both of us being pulled into it by redirecting your mental energy along with myself into a space I created out of your memories. Now that the energy is not technically attached to your physical self, the stone is not trying pull either of us in because we are not close to it. Do you understand, child?

“Yes- I think. Does that mean that we are stuck here forever, if the wings are still touching us?”

The voice gave its strange sigh again. No, Godkiller. When your gem-selling acquaintance removes the wings, which she surely will, I will be able to tell through the walls of this smaller realm. A flurry of dark wings fluttered overhead and Chaos caught a glimpse of a familiar winged shape. Do not worry about that creature, child. Something akin to a smile laced their words. You might see them often, or you might not see them at all, but know that they will nearly always be following you. Such is the path that the Eight have taken. You might see others with them- do not worry. They can pierce through all fabrics of time and space, even other realities, but they will not harm you. They are only ever there to record.

“Only ever there to record?” Chaos asked. “Record what?”

A pause. Do not concern yourself with that, the voice warned. In the same way your responsibility is to kill deities, their responsibility is to remember all things from all worlds and all times. But we digress- Your jewelcraft friend has removed the wings. Try not to get us killed again, will you, Shieth’ora?

“Wait-” she tried to protest, wanting to ask more questions, but the world was already crumpling inwards into itself, the beach disappearing a millisecond before the Godkiller found themself falling through a black abyss-

Right into their own body. Above them, Hope peered down at her, concern in her goldenrod eyes. “Oh good, you’re awake- tell me, why did you start glowing?”

Chapter Text

“It’s called falxspar,” Chaos explained to Hope. They were sitting on the fountain in the main square, waiting for Centross while discussing what had happened. Crowds of people still moved around them in rivulets of color and life, but the market was loud enough to shield the words of the conversing duo, at least from the majority of the passersby. Not a perfect solution, but one they required nonetheless. “It’s a crystal, a pretty rare one. In fact, it’s not found anywhere in the Overworlds, so you can understand why I panicked when I saw it.”

“Right.” She turned it over, letting the sun glimmer off of the facets. “I am not surprised it is rare. We found it at the base of the mountain near the border, at the edge of a forest a few years back. Perhaps you have seen it- unique looking peak to be sure; it had two sheer cliffs rising from the middle, thin path winding between them? We wer-” Hope paused suddenly, staring at the Godkiller as though plants were winding their way out of her skull and growing into horns. They blinked slowly, glimmering yellow vanishing for a heartbeat. “I’m sorry, what do you mean, it’s ‘not found anywhere in the Overworlds?’”

They shifted, abruptly uncomfortable. It’s fine, it’s fine, you knew this was going to happen. You knew from the moment the falxspar touched you that she was going to find out eventually. It always happens. You don’t need to tell her, though- your secret is more important, and if she knows, you’ll be dragging her into all of this. One more person who can betray you. One more person who knows who you are and what you want to do. The ignorance is a protection. If they know, you’re just placing them in more danger. You can lie. But Chaos was beginning to have her fill of lies and deceit, and Hope had a right to know. “What do you know about the Sheith’ora, gemsmith?”

The wings slipped from her hands to the cobblestone below, bouncing from one to another with a sound like wind chimes underwater, simultaneously sharp and muted, bells in the deepness of the ocean, tolling away for an eternity. The child of the Ish’kalan known as Lycan stared at her, eyes of molten amber and gilt turbulent and shadowed with surprise. “Sh-Sheith’ora?” she murmured, her unfamiliar accent blurring the words together until they were nigh impossible to understand. “As in… as in Godkillers?” The last word was whispered, Hope glancing around, concerned, as though speaking it aloud would summon them into the market. Chaos nodded. “I- they are legends around here, around everywhere, really. We don’t really… y’know, talk about them? They’re…” she hesitated, as if unsure as to what to say.

“Yes, yes, we’re great scary monsters who slaughter the innocent deities.” Chaos sighed, rolling their eyes. “Yes, those Sheith’ora. Godkillers. Slayers of Deities, Hunters of Kinaxus, Murderers of Gods, the Blades of the Sun God, killers of the Enemies of Energy. Sight of the Sun. We who keep the balance of the world. Thinners of the flock. Protectors of Kinaxus.” With every title, Hope’s eyes widened, as though each word was an arrow to the chest. “You know, we’ve been painted in a bad light for a long time, Child of Lycan. Surely you, as the daughter of a spirit, would understand better than most just how horrid deities are.”

“I… I’m not sure what you’re saying,” she choked out, but the truth was already there in her eyes, not matter how much she did not want to believe that the courteous woman with two knives and a knowledge of falxspar and Godkillers was what her mind had always thought of as bloodthirsty savages with sanguine-splattered pointed teeth and burning eyes like hellfire. “You- you keep s-saying ‘we’- Ch-Chaos, you’re not a- one of them, are you? Wha- I- I’m not sure-”

They blinked, slowly, holding up the hilt of their sword where a long piece of falxspar was inlaid. “Chaos Eprosidin, Child of Kinaxus, hunter of gods, at your service. ”

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Centross found Chaos sitting on the edge of the fountain with a strange who had her head buried in her hands, the Shieth’ora looking quietly on, a curious combination of apathy, interest, and inquisitiveness, like a scientist observing a strange specimen. They looked up as the knight approached, face going to a carefully cultivated blank mask, giving away little as to what had happened or what they were thinking. He considered himself rather good at reading emotions, usually, but his skills were honed on the purple-eyed residents of the Enderlands, with their high cheekbones and small mouths. Then, he had met Chaos- a Sheith’ora, a person with an unearthly appearance, as though a forest sprite in their dark green attire. Pointed ears and sharp jawlines and eyes like melted chocolate or oiled leather, things very different from his day-to-day life, and far harder to understand.

He thought he’d begun to get better at it, actually. He noticed the subtle clench of their jaw when Centross knew he’d asked too much, or the way the outer corners of her eyes dipped downwards when she was sad or lost in memory, or the way their ears seemed to almost point upwards like a cat when surprised or on guard. Perhaps that was why he found himself continuing on with this fool’s task, this impossible duty- Chaos was so strange to him, so unnatural, like a bolt of fire in a world of ice, melting away the cold with her ferocious stubbornness and flaring temper. He found himself wondering if this was how all people who were not Enderlands-born were, those who did not come from his nation. A part of him pondered, quietly, as though he was too afraid to fully think of it, if this was why he'd always wanted to get out of his country, to expand his world beyond the reaches of his society.

And maybe that was why he continued.

He knew the Godkiller didn’t trust him- and why should she? Centross had been nothing but pestering, but he knew that it was the only way to slowly bring them out of their shell, to get them to open up more. Sure, he’d had to deal though his fair share of suspicious side-eyes and shoulders hunched away, but was it not worth it if Chaos become more and more of a normal human, even if they were not a human at all? He wanted her to see the world through his eyes, the way they people who lived there did. That was why he suggested all of the villages, and the bartering, and the stops. He wanted the Sheith’ora to grow to value this world as much as Centross himself did, to learn to appreciate all of the beauty it offered and the peace it gave, to walk through it rather than across it. He wanted them to cultivate things, not to burn them to the ground. And, if along the way she decided not to kill the deities that protected this things, that would be an added bonus to Centross’s life.

And so, it surprised him greatly to see her with another person, albeit not quite a human. A half-human, it looked, with more rounded features than that of a spirit but perked ears and long, dark fingernails like claws. It startled him even more to see Chaos looking at her with a sort of concern, in her own half-god way, as though this newcomer was something of a friend, of a companion, not just another character in the grand Eil’vith of the Godkiller.

With the slightest of hesitant indecision, Chaos nudged the gray-haired figure beside them. She looked up, and Centross lost all his powers of speech. Brilliant, unnaturally colored eyes like suns and flames and gilded lava, melting clocks and sunbeams and flashing citrine shown through dark lashes, contrasting against honey-colored skin and stormcloud-toned hair. Pale lines like cobwebs or the white marks on the insides of oranges cut through her irises, dividing them with gossamer threads. Tears were forming in those eyes, drops of water in the boiling magma.

“Hi,” Centross greeted them, trying to focus more on Chaos than her newest acquaintance in an attempt to reclaim his tongue. He commented, “Looks like you found yourself a new friend,” gesturing to the wolf-woman, who was glancing between the two nervously. The Godkiller’s eyes slid towards her, something unspoken passing between them from one significant look to the other. The gold-eyed person tucked something into one tiny pouch tucked against her silver belt, something that lazily caught the light as it went, misty-clear and glimmering, like a forgotten snow-washed star the gods forgot to remove from the world when it was created. He narrowed his eyes, but Chaos merely ignored him, steadily holding his gaze, those blazing owl-like eyes unflinching. With a sigh, he dropped it- there were more important things to focus on. “Who’s your new friend?”

“Hope,” the other person said, rising to her feet. She still seemed dazed, although by what, Centross did not know. “Chaos and I had the pleasure of meeting in my store, over on Aegean Street.” She gestures to a street to the right, where a thronging mass of bodies and people crowding through the roads, showing it to be quite a popular road for shopping. “I know it looks crowded, but we rarely get any customers. There are many offshoot housing districts that branch off from there, as well as newer shops which have become more popular with the masses than our older ones. Few have appreciation for the elder stores and for those who pour their heart into keeping the ways of the past alive, these days.” She looked back at Centross, gold eyes swirling like bottled potions. There was something oddly familiar about her, as though she reminded him of someone from long ago…

Hope shared a brief glance with Chaos once more. “I have been told about your mission- not that your friend here had a choice. …a lot happened. I wanted to ask you, Chaos, for a favor- not that you have to do it!” She said quickly, holding out her hands. “Just… if you want to. I have a brother,” she continued as Chaos nodded. “He took after my father the way I took after my mother. Left the city as soon as he could, wanted to get out of here and make a name for himself. If you see him, will you let him know our mother’s health is failing? …He never had a very good relationship with her, but… she’s the last parent we have left, you know?”

“What’s his name?” Centross asked, curious.

“He doesn’t have one,” Hope explained, shaking her head. “My father, like all spirits of the earth and of the air, believed that names should be earned, that they should be given to those they fit. He called me Hope because I gave him hope for the future, he said. Lycan called me the hope of mankind, the light which does not die nor ever goes out. He told me I would one day light the way for those whose paths are dark… I wonder if that is why you are here,” she said, her voice going soft as the strange eyes flicked between the two. “But my brother… he did not get a name. He left as soon as he could after our father died, struck out on his own, saying that he would become as my father was. He has no name, as far I as know, but I have not seen him for many years. He may call himself whatever manner of names. But… you will know him by his appearance. He bears the same ashen hair and dark skin and golden eyes.”

“We will look for him,” Chaos promised, holding Hope’s hands between her own. As he watched the two, he realized that Chaos cared for Hope like a friend or a family member, felt responsible for her personal happiness and well-being, and, looking at Hope, Centross realized who she reminded him of.

“Farewell,” the gemsmith told them, a sad sort of worry on her face. “If you see my brother… tell him that I love him. I do not know if he is alive or not, but I know he is a bitter, angry man who holds onto his grudges and believes in little but himself- he will need a family once more. Send him home, Chaos Eprosidin. He has little time. And Chaos… I will remember what we discussed.” That same look, full of unspoken meaning, passed between them like lightning between clouds. She raised one hand in goodbye as the two melted into the crowds, the moving heads blocking her from their sight.

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“What did you think of Hope?” Chaos asked. The two were sitting beside a campfire, halfway to the capital of the Enderlands. Centross was stretched out on his bedroll, his pack beside his head, letting his tired muscles rest. They’d been trekking non-stop since the town, climbing multiple mountains and never pausing for a breath or a break. The knight did not understand the Godkiller’s brisk pace or sudden need to cover as much ground as possible in one day- he did not understand many of the things she did. Often, her eyes would become unfocused, as though they were listening to something faraway, various expressions sometimes straying across her face. A few times, Centross caught her talking quietly to themself, then pausing as though listening to someone else speak. But, every time, he dismissed it as a Sheith’ora habit, or just one of the numerous things he did not understand about Chaos.

“She reminds me of someone I used to know,” he said, brushing leaves off of his roll. “Back before I was drafted, I went into agriculture- a farmer. It went pretty well, I think. I had a good understanding of it and yielded relatively good-sized crops each time. About six months into the job, we got another hire at the farm. Young boy named Martin. Same big eyes as Hope, only his were such a dark brown they were almost black. He had the same way of speaking, too- real quiet and gentle. I was only there for another month or two after that, but I became something of Martin’s mentor and father-figure. When I got the formal summons into the army, he promised me he’d watch over the place, as though it were his or mine. Haven’t seen him since. Probably won’t, until the war’s done. But yeah,” mumbled Centross, glancing at Chaos, “Hope reminds me of him, almost like a little sibling.”

Chaos hmmed uncommittedly, taking the pot of water off of the fire and pouring the boiling water into a wooden mug. In the nearly two weeks since the two had begun traveling together, he’d found that the Shieth’ora was oddly good at making tea from dried flowers and plants they’d foraged along the way. Chamomile was todays, this time bought by Centross in Where-the-Herons-Cry. He'd slowly but surely been learning more about her, about what they liked and disliked, what made them happy, and what was a part of her culture. It certainly made her a more agreeable traveling companion.

For example, about three days ago, Centross had asked her about the tea. “It’s a big part of Sheith’ora culture, actually,” she had replied, shooting him a slightly annoyed, tired look. “We drink certain types for certain things- some teas for festivals, some for new moons, some for birthdays, some for weddings- that kind of thing. For example, we drink lavender, raspberry, and mint teas for the Frosthaven festivals, but ginger or cherry teas for Thricefire. Other time, we drink certain teas for strength, such as Earl Gray.”

“Seems like everything is a part of Sheith’ora culture,” he had teased. “What’s next, trees?” She had simply rolled her eyes and stopped talking.

Present-day Chaos stirred her tea around with her finger, despite it only having just come off the fire. “How are you not writhing on the ground in pain?” he asked, watching in amazement. She blinked, confused, then their eyes widened in understanding. They glanced down at their cup, then back to Centross, then back to the cup, and then looked back at the knight once more, holding eye contact. To his surprise and bewilderment for the rest of his life, she began screaming loudly, jerking her finger from the cup and shaking it in the air to get the hot liquid off. Her screams turned to laughs as she nearly collapsed onto the ground, trying not to spill her tea.

“Oh my gods- your face- bahahhahahaha-” The sound of her laughter was so unfamiliar, so uncommon, it made him flinch. “Okay, okay- I’m sorry, but that was absolutely hilarious, I hope you know that.” They wiped their eyes, recomposing themself. “In all seriousness, Children of Kinaxus have a higher heat tolerance than most. Hot water like this is barely warm to us- we’re not immune to, say, lava, but things like Thricefires in Netherium or boiling water or coals…. Not too bad.” She fished out the chamomile, tossing it into the short grass nearby. “Cold doesn’t affect us that much either as our bodies naturally run at a higher temperature than yours. We self-heat, in a way. Plus, we live in a place that’s pretty cold and misty and we rarely get sun, so we’ve adapted to fit that type of weather just fine. We also get sick less as we burn out sickness in the same way a fever does.”

“Okay…” Centross frowned a little. “How else are Sheith’ora different from us? I get the higher body heat and all that, but what makes you guys so special and us humans… trash?”

Their mouth twitched into something reminiscent of a grin. “For one thing, our anatomy is quite different. Sure, it’s relatively the same organs, but the way it’s positioned is pretty different. Our heart is more in the center of our torsos, and our veins are in VERY different areas, as well as being located deeper in our bodies. So, you can’t take a pulse in the same place. For example, with humans, you take a pulse at the neck, right? For Godkillers, you can’t. There’s no heartbeat detectable there. In fact, there’s very few places a Shieth’ora pulse can be felt. Also, we typically have what’s called a ‘Gift’.”

“A… a what?”

“Gifts. Gods have abilities which pertain to their particular dominion, usually a wide spectrum of them. With Sheith’ora, we usually get one particular aspect of that ability, in this case all relating to energy, heat, or light. Vision better than anything else on this world, the ability to control one’s body temperature, creating balls of light, speed beyond that physically capable in most cases- things like that. A few have multiple, some have none, but each Godkiller probably has one.”

“And… yours is speed, correct? That’s how you moved so fast?” Chaos nodded. “Alright, then how come you’re not moving that quickly all the time?”

“Because that’s not how it works, House Mistvale,” she replied, exasperation showing through her voice. “The Gift of Speed gives me an inexhaustible well of energy which I can tap and use in different parts of my body, but that doesn’t mean there’s not drawbacks. My muscles are still doing all the work, which means that if I use it all the time and my body is actually moving that quickly, it will have the same physical effects as if I was running that much, only faster. Second, although the Gift also slightly speeds up my mental capacity, allowing me to process information and react quicker, everything else around me seems slowed. Conversations can be near impossible to have, on either end, and it’s not like it makes you invincible. You’re still able to be injured, albeit your body might heal slightly faster due to everything within you speeding up, but it doesn’t appear that way to you. It’s more like… the bearer of the Gift is moving through reality at a faster speed than everyone else. To them, it seems normal. Blood still flows the same, and it’ll still hurt the same. It’s less a Gift to you and more a curse to others, in a sense.”

“Ah. And this is the only Gift you have?”

“Actually, no. I slightly misspoke earlier- there is one ability all Sheith’ora have: No need for sleep. Well, that’s not the best way to put it- it’s complicated. I will explain it to you at a later date. For the time being, Centross, you most decidedly do not have that Gift- get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll go kill gods.”

“Sounds great,” he replied, a yawn splitting through his words. It was true- he was, in fact, exhausted. The last thing he saw before sleep overtook him was Chaos pulling out the familiar gray cover of her Eil’vith.

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Day 14
Overworlds
Blackmist

We visited Where-the-Herons-Cry today, restocked on supplies, met a new friend, and have been saddled with a request from our newest acquaintance: a request to find their nameless sibling who has been gone for years. I am not confident in our ability to find them- this land is far more dangerous than what I originally thought. It is quite massive, riddled with caves and crevices and mountains that spiral towards the sky, forests which stretch for miles and deserts that span wide spaces. He could be anywhere in this world, from the northern-most ice-blocked shores of Aethercadena to the deepest reaches of Netherium. Perhaps we will find him, perhaps we will not. We can only hope and pray.

We are finally going to arrive at the capital, tomorrow. Is this fear I feel, or is it exhilaration at the fact that I am getting to fulfill my purpose at last? Do my fingers itch with nervousness, or with the desperate, primal need to slaughter a deity with my own hands and sword? My chest is so light but my stomach is heavy- I am a battleground on which excitement and dread are waging war on one another.

Centross has gone to sleep. He is exhausted from traveling, not knowing why I am pushing us as fast as we can go. He does not know about the conversation I held with Hope after her discovery of my heritage. He does not know how I still plan on killing Anderian, urged on by a voice in the back of my mind and a stranger with golden eyes and hair like smoke. Far be it from my understanding as to why both of them are so insistent that she must die- the voice pushes on stubbornly, as though it has its own agenda to fulfill, while Hope was a gentle suggestion, although I can swear there was hatred and fear in her eyes.

How funny it is, to me, that the only allies I have in this fight against the gods are a disembodied voice, someone I will likely never see again, and a knight who does not actually want to kill them. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.

Gods, I hope we survive the next few days- just a week, that’s all I need. One week to get this done, to avenge my people and to repay the debt in blood and ichor. One week for this to end.

I hope we can do this.

Chapter Text

He shivers in the cold darkness.

Stone and metal are all he can feel, all he can experience though his questing fingers in this world of pure ebony night that surrounds him, pulsing though his ears and filling is brain from the inside out like ink in water. His entire life has been darkness slithering across his skin and through his veins, indigo and pitch drowning his sight. Such is the curse he was born to bear, that which flows in his blood, the inheritance of immortal blood mixing with that of the accursed.

The burns start again, waves of fire as hot as the summer sun washing over his skin despite the icy coolness of the cell, wracking his body with pain and heat. He has gotten better at not crying out, he has become more tolerant of the pain that comes with the experience and the sensations that pair with the happenings. Th first time, weeks ago, it had felt as though his entire body was melting, sliding off of charred bones, his breath like lava and his veins as molten rock. Now, it was far more bearable agony, hot coals instead of brimstone, the sensation of boiling water being poured upon him having dissipated near entirely. It is peculiar- he is strangely welcoming of the burns, for they provide a source of warmth in this place of black ice and hoarfrost. He finds himself seeking them out in the night, shivering and trembling, waiting for the agony because, even though it is painfully hot, it is heat nonetheless.

Such is the curse of bearing a god, even one that he himself had summoned and invoked.

He shakes, slightly, the burns fading away and leaving curls of steam across his skin. They are becoming shorter and less common as his body adjusts to being a host for a god, as his physical self learns to accommodate two entities instead of one. He is like a misshapen vessel being smashed to pieces so it can be made anew, to fit the preferences of the deity. He knows that this is only the beginning, that even once the burns are gone, he must learn to control and suppress the other consciousness so that a repeat of that first night, of the first time the god took hold, when everything fell apart and he lost consciousness, when he was first captured and brought here, never happens again. It is a burden he must learn to carry, no matter how hard.

The god’s presence pulses against his mind, thumping in time to the heartbeat he can always hear. Sometimes it is louder, sometimes quieter. Closer, further. Faster, slower. Each time, the entity in his own mind matches, perfectly in time. He knows what it means, he knows what he is carrying. He knows what is out there, for there were two of the same being, twin forces forever opposite and the same, balancing in a dance of paired life forces. The one found a vessel long ago- the other found one in him. The being knows too, for its pulsing changes into more of a purr, the ancient words morphing into a pleased growl.

A primal, canine snarl echoes down the frosted halls from his right like the cries of a ghost. He knows what lies down there, what has taken residence in one of the cells, for on one of the first days he had managed to ask the guard who had brought him food. They called him the Mad Dog, a man who seemed more animal than human. They said he wore a wolf skull as a mask, that they possessed yellow eyes that glowed with anger and wrath, that he had fangs he bared and snapped. Many a time, he had heard the howls and the near bark-like words that drifted to his cell, the rage-filled snapping. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he thought sobs and crying also carried through on the night wind, although it could be easily blamed on the creaking and whining of the metal hinges on the guard door.

He sighed, leaving the cell door where he had twined his fingers through the metal and instead depositing himself on the rock-shelf that served as his bed. He was becoming more accustomed to it, his princely mannerisms fading slightly. Here, he was just another prisoner, and out there, it was unlikely anyone was coming to save him. Why should anyone come to rescue or bargain for the prince when they had an immortal king? He was unlikely to ever ascend to the throne- that was one of the reasons he had invoked the god in the first place, was it not? He wanted to rule? He thought he could do a better job? And look where it had led him.

And yet, deep beneath the Enderlands capital, the deity in his head pulsed louder, its beat quickening, the words he had never been able to translate sharpening into something he understood, a single message whispered over and over again, scraping across his brain and filling is mind.

They have arrived.

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Centross was thoroughly sick of traveling.

His feet hurt. His head hurt. Gods- even his BONES hurt, which made little sense, and yet, it was true. He was entirely, completely, decidedly never going anywhere ever again- or, at least, until he’d slept for about seventy years and ate enough food to feed three gods. It wasn’t the length of the journey, per se, it was more the fact that Chaos had been pushing them non-stop for two days without a stop or a rest or even- gods forbid -a BREAK. Furthermore, she had become increasingly annoyed at Centross when he had begun to revert to what he always did when he was tired: be the grumpiest, most ticked-off person in the world.

And yes, he DID feel like he had some reason to be a LITTLE annoyed. He was desperately tired and thirsty as any pauses for water were less than thirty seconds and done at a slow walk. He was not entirely sure his legs would ever work again once he sat down, and he was seriously considering gluing his eyes open to keep from falling asleep. Lucky Sheith’ora- whatever Gift Chaos had briefly mentioned the nights before, the one about not needing sleep, was certainly benefitting her. They appeared to be in perfect health, albeit slightly irritated and definitely impatient, fingers tapping against the hilts of her strange knives with brisk frustration as they stared towards the palace.

The two had just entered the capital, still on the outskirts where the crowds were less thick and the buildings further apart. It was, in Centross’s opinion, the most beautiful place on earth. The buildings here were made of the palest Endstone, glimmering like fallen stars upon the silver-tinged frosted grass, accents of rich purple in the form of purpur, a wood found near the east coast, gracing the rooftops and doors. The tall buildings like willow trees stuck towards the gray-blue sky, roads made of blackstone and deepslate on which people walked and carriages rode past stretched between the houses and shops. Statues were in every park and many a street corner, everywhere the sounds of laughter and the smells of fragrant flowers and delicious foods. The ground sloped gently upwards towards the city, as every part of it did. The palace was at the heart of it all, at the top of the hill so it could always be visible. Towers and belfries pierced the sky, tall as giants, vines climbing the outsides, balconies and terraces overhanging from building after building, ivy and wisteria hanging in thick boughs from the railings, the violently purple petals blowing in the wind and covering the roads. Smoke drifted from chimneys, wind chimes hanging above every door as was the tradition, window shutters flung open to the sun and the warmth on this cool day. Strangers and nobles and residents alike passed each other in the streets, bumping shoulders and sharing dipped heads in greeting. Patrons laughed in the taverns, the bells tolling softly in the distance, their echoes announcing the change of the hour. Horses clopped by, their heads tossing, while doors slammed open and children charged out. Paper notices were nailed to boards as they passed, advertisements for the dance in the square that night and announcements for the wedding of Simon Cleaver and Julia Windburry flapping in the breeze.

“So, this is your home.” A statement, not a question. Chaos’s tone was unimpressed, but the knight could sense a tone of… wistfulness? homesickness? longing? beneath it, as though she was reminded of some faraway place they could never return to- perhaps she was simply remembering her own home, Centross reasoned with himself. It was perfectly natural for humans to have emotions, although Chaos was not much of a human and not much for showing emotions besides anger and suspicion. That was why he had been so insistent on talking to them, trying to get them to open up more. That was why he had been so surprised she had formed a sort of half-friendship with Hope so quickly.

“Yeah,” he sighed, half nervous and half relieved. “Good ol’ Chorusan. It hasn’t changed very much- not that I expected it to completely turn itself upside down in a few months, but…” He wrinkled his nose at a snake oil salesman. “I don’t know. Maybe it would’ve been better if some things had changed, but at least it means I’m still valuable to you.” Chaos did not deign to answer that, her gaze straying back to the twisted spires of the palace. Their eyes glazed over once more, those shadows darkening the chocolate-colored depths as they did often. That was another thing Centross had learned from his time with the Godkiller: one did not bother her when that look crossed her face. It often ended up in being ignored or being punched in the arm in annoyance. Questions? They could wait. Comments or concerns? Delay them. The world was ending? Tell it to pause for five minutes.

So, he nudged them over towards a row of benches on the side of one of the crossroads, deciding that it he had to wait, he might as well do so comfortably. They were backless benches, made of Endstone and carved simply into smooth surfaces for travelers or residents to rest on. Large morning glories crawled along the legs, their trumpet-shaped flowers releasing their sweet, heady scent to those who paused to breath it in. Chaos was a mile away mentally, staring into space, a glassy quality to their gaze, like glazed marbles.

It was about five to ten minutes, simultaneously seeming both too short for Centross’s weary muscles and too long for his rapidly-beating heart. He had used the time to rest and to watch the people passing by, the Highborn and the shopkeepers and the storeowners and the patrons and the occasional soldiers. Purple-eyed people who were either blissfully aware of the fact that they would never be called upon in the draft or terrified of the day they were told to leave their families and to die in battle. His jaw clenched as he realized that Chorusan had, indeed, changed. The air of happiness and contentment and peace… it had faded, still faintly there, but it seemed forced, as though the residents here were trying as much as they could to feel normal. The Highborn did not appear to care, or to even notice, too absorbed in their parties and teas.

Discomfort prickled at the edges of his mind. Before the war, he had wanted to go into agriculture, true, but there had used to be something about the noble Highborn life that had always drawn him in, the allure of power and glittering finery that had made him strive, even if unconsciously, to be noticed by them. He had wanted what they had, wanted the financial security they possessed while managing to maintain the farmlands he loved so much. A Highborn farmer- something unheard of and something that would most likely be laughed at and mocked. The idea had drifted through his mind many a time, just the concept of enough money to do as he pleased and to not need to worry about what tomorrow would bring.

Now, after experiencing the warfront and having traveled with a simplistic, minimal, unpretentious Sheith’ora for weeks, the glimmering jewels that had once drawn him in seemed as frivolous and cold as distant stars, something dark and apathetic. The uninterested apathy of the Highborn made him uncomfortable, made him reluctant to even accept the fact that he too had once longed to be one of them. He wanted to bury it beneath his mind, drive those memories deep within his unconsciousness. There was no nobility in being noble, no power in being Highborn, no righteousness in not caring who lived or died so long as you survived.

A tap on his shoulder jolted him out of his thoughts. Chaos stood next to him, waiting expectantly. “Sorry,” was all she offered, no other explanation or consolation for zoning out. “I wasted time- we need to go.” He studied them as they walked, suddenly aware of some new emotion in their eyes, a steely, resolute anger that burned with cold fire. It was not the same stubbornness or light annoyance he had witnessed throughout the journey- it was white hot rage that scorched and charred without burning up, infinite and eternal, a sharp contrast to the fleeting glimpses of ire shown before.

The gentle slope of the road becomes steeper as they ascended before leveling off suddenly in a plateau- and there was the palace. The tallest building Centross had ever had the pleasure of seeing, the Chorusan Stronghold was a delicate balance between a level of security equal to that of the Netherium Fortress and the soft, fragile beauty of what had once been the Aethercadena palace. Thin spires of gold-inlaid Endstone soared towards the sky, arches and cloisters connecting the spikes, dripping with the chorus vines for which the Enderlands were known for in purple splatters. At the base, a wide, circular wall formed the base of the palace, one gate facing each of the cardinal directions. About thirty to forty feet up, the wall sloped inwards suddenly, melting into the towers that erupted from it like upside-down icicles and vanishing into the rest of the stronghold. The spires nearest to the outside of the structures were the shortest, with the tower in the middle, the tallest, being the one in which Queen Anderian held court over her kingdom. Purple and black banners hung down along the sides of some of the towers in rings blending into the chorus vines, and everywhere the glitter of sunlight on glass flashed from the windows that covered the towers in small arching alcoves.

“That’s where Anderian lives?” Chaos said incredulously, eyebrows raised at the stronghold in front of them. “Sheith’ain ansa, could she get ANY more… gaudy? Frivolous? I swear, her ego must be the size of those spires to live in that while her subjects go to war and die in her name.” They shook their head disapprovingly, staring at the fortress. For a moment, Centross tried to see it the way the Godkiller did- the surplus splatterings of gilding and gold a cold display of wealth in the face of those who struggled to live their day-to-day lives, the sprawling size seeming self-absorbed in a city where citizens struggled to find space in the markets for stores and living spaces, the extravagant number of guards by the gates to protect someone who was supposed to be unkillable.

For a horrible heartbeat, Centross felt his faith in his goddess and queen falter, only for the most fleeting of seconds. What if she was just as bad as Chaos had always hinted at, always alluded to without outright accusing or blatantly claiming? What if Anderian, the Lady of the Morning Star, the Twilight Queen, the Goddess of the Mind, really was a cruel, horrible, manipulative woman who lived in complete apathy and self-service? The Sheith’ora claimed that they had a reason to hunt deities. Chaos had never said precisely what it was, but he could imagine how centuries living away from societies and gods would twist their way of thinking- unless… it was the human minds that had been twisted.

Chaos led the way forward to the western-most gate, the one reserved for spies, secret-bearers, and informants. The southern gate was for the commoners, for the petitioners, and the citizens, the eastern was for the war-related visits, for the generals and soldiers and prisoners and the guards, and the northern for Highborn, nobles, and royalty. The guards outside glanced up as they approached, piercing purple eyes noting Centross’s Enderlands-style armor and the silver pendant on Chaos’s neck, the Sign of Anderian. He’d heard of it before meeting her, but he wondered if she really understood the significance of that mark. It was a sigil given to the most trusted of Anderian’s spies, the eye on the front called the ‘Eye of the Goddess’, a symbol that the bearer was, quite literally, her eyes and ears. The number of spies that earned the Sign was few and far between, and the ones that did were usually given special clearance into the Stronghold and had very little asked about them from those not a part of the Council. Hopefully, it meant Centross could keep Chaos alive for longer than thirty minutes.

The soldier at the front’s eyes slid up from the Sign, studying the Godkiller’s face. “What are your names?” he asked, tone impassive and giving away little.

Centross stepped in between the two. “I’m Centross Daevid Mistvale. A few weeks ago, I received a promotion from my typical soldering experience to a special taskforce stationed at the border to escort informants of the Queen and to keep them safe on their way to the capital to report, after letters became unsafe and often times read and censored. For about two weeks, I’ve been assigned to make sure one of our top spies-” he nodded to Chaos, who stood silently gazing at the guards with a superior, judging look, “-manages to get her information to Her Royal Highness. We would’ve arrived sooner, but there were some delays due to normal traveling lines being endangered by the war and by threats of ambushes.”

The soldier dipped his head in the smallest of nod, looking over his shoulder and gesturing for the guards to open the gate. Something akin to suspicion and remembrance crossed Chaos’s face, and Centross realized that this was similar to how her crossing of the Enderlands’ border had gone, or, at least, how he had heard it had gone. But the gate swung open with no soldiers running to get a following, and the guards seemed to be keeping a respectful, perhaps slightly nervous berth from the Godkiller, finding other things to do which did not involve looking at them. Slowly, the two stepped over the threshold, entering the Stronghold.

------------------

They stood in a long, wide hall as the gate closed behind them. Shades of emerald green, the color for the Enderlands royal family, and iron-gray, the color of the spies and secret section of the council, was spread all across the room. Tapestries depicting the various conquests of their immortal queen covered the walls, low benches of weathered gray driftwood and steel interspersed between silver sconces, the fires having been put out during the day. Skylights set into the vaulted ceilings provided light and removed some of the gloom of the darker colors. Ahead, the hall split into a crossroads, with the corridor itself stretching further and a doorway that opened into a large room on either side. Centross tugged Chaos into the one on the left, glancing around to make sure no servants were around before he whispered, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“We’ve been over this before,” they whisper-hissed back. “Just get me close to them, House Mistvale, and I’ll do the rest. I’ve waited for this for a long time. We should start with Perix first,” they murmured, suddenly realizing that she had no real plan. “That way, she can’t have time to set up illusions once the alarm goes off- do you know where she should be?” Centross nodded, leading the way and weaving through the room. Chaos followed him, fingers twitched on the hilts of her Netherite knives, nerves on edge. She did not like the palace- the halls were too narrow and the ceilings too high, too many sharp corners and pockets where any number of people could be hiding, not to mention the eerie silence and the strange lack of any servants or people in general.

Centross had told them that it was because Anderian had some strange ideology about having less people being in the stronghold making it easier to find any intruders. It made sense, in a half-backwards way. Less people meant it would be harder for anyone to hide, as well as providing less noise so they could be tracked easily. Anyone going by would be noticed more easily, and the guards would not have to check a thousand faces to see if they were the intruder. All-in-all, it would be horrible for Centross and Chaos, except that it also meant it was less likely they would run into anyone and be questioned about their activities or intentions.

The knight led them to a spiraled stairwell and Chaos realized they had to be going into one of the towers- which also made sense, except she wondered how Centross knew which one was the correct one. There were over fifty towers of varying heights and arches, some of which did not have any other connections to the other towers at all. Therefore, she was neither surprised nor angry when the first tower revealed nothing- followed by the second, third, fourth, sixth, and seventh towers. The fifth did have something of a clue, a passing servant telling them that Perix had only just left, heading towards the central towers. Some towers were locked, some were completely empty, and others were too full of maids and butlers to see. By the thirteenth tower, Chaos was beginning to become irritated.

“I thought you knew where she is,” she told Centross, exasperation showing through her tone. They were halfway up the stairs, leaning against one of the smooth walls.

He shrugged; his voice equally filled with impatience. “I don’t have a tracker pinned to her, Chaos. They’re a moving target, and I haven’t been to every single tower before- there’s no telling where she might be. Do you have a better idea on how to find her? Because, if you don’t, let me think.”

The Godkiller hesitated, then realized she might, in fact, have a much faster and more reliable way, so long as it would work, which it had not been recently. “Follow my instructions and pull me along,” they instructed, grabbing Centross’s hand. He blinked, surprise and confusion written all across his face, but didn’t protest. Inhaling deeply, they closed their eyes, letting her consciousness slip far away from her body, falling away and spreading throughout the abyss that was the void. It seemed faster this time, as though her frustration and exasperation were fueling her descent, breaking down the resistance. It was almost as though the void was accepting them faster, almost eagerly, which made little sense as Chaos had been the one to Husk the god of this domain. Surely the void would then reject her, would struggle against anything they tried.

And yet, in record time, the Sheith’ora felt the folds of the void ripple out around them, the endless expanse of the fabric of the universe undulating and flowing outwards like the surface of the never-ending wine-dark sea, shifting and changing and fluctuating with the phases of the moon. It was like standing in a round room, except the walls, floor, and ceiling were made of a soupy dark mist. The atmosphere felt strangely squishy, as though surrounding by cobwebs that stayed in place wherever she moved them. Her consciousness hovered in the middle like a moon, formless and shapeless, thoughts strangely finite and fleeting, as though slipping through the fingers of her mind. Usually, the auras of the gods would glimmer like distant lights in the fogginess of the walls, becoming bigger and brighter as Chaos neared them, but this time the fog was still and dim and silent. No glowing will-o-the-wisps glowed through the void, no distant beacons of divine power or signal flares of divine power hissing through the swirling clouds.

Their consciousness floated higher, expanding by sheer willpower, driving the walls away and expanding the pocket in the void. As they concentrated, the void shifted, the waves of mixing mist drawing back as though bitten by a viper. Several moments in, Chaos’s concentration failed and the walls would retreat no further, the bubble no longer expanding. A cautious sort of thrum had begun to vibrate across the surface of the space like the purring of a cat, gaining volume and intensity, echoing and repeating and looping until it scraped against Chaos’s mental shields, reverberating through her brain.

Hello, Chaos Eprosidin. Looking for another god, are we?

“Y’know, I’m getting really tired of you poking around when I’m trying to get things done,” sighed the Godkiller, unable to pinpoint the voice. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, a call both inside and out. A squeeze on her hand divided her attention, bringing a part of it back to her physical self, where Centross was asking if she was alright. “Yeah, shut up,” she muttered back to him, trying to force her concentration back to the void.

Mmm. The voice hummed quietly as she struggled to return. And I find that funny, considering that you are the one who has returned to my realm of origin, and yet here you are, telling me that I need to stay out of your head. Then again, you are the one who put me in there, so I do not suppose you even get a choice, do you, Godkiller? Being the cause of my predicament, you do not get to complain about any of this.

“Yeah, okay, I’m just going to pretend like you’re not talking about weird stuff and skip to the part where I ask you why you decided to dramatically enter my space in the void,” they said, feeling the abyss prickle back into focus once more. More confused-but-going-with-it noises came from Centross in the physical, barely audible and faint amid the fog. “So, my annoying friend, why did you barge into my god-hunt like this? Here to give another spiel about how all the gods need to die, or are you here to actually do something, for once?”

A chuckle. Very well, Chaos. You want to locate Perix, correct? But you cannot? Yes, funny how this works- It makes sense, in a way, with me- ah, forget that. You are not deserving of it, not yet. I suppose that you finding the gods would be beneficial to me as well, so I will offer you my succor and counsel, if you are welcoming of it. Let your infuriatingly sturdy mental shields down, Sheith’ora- I grow tired of having to break through them time and time again. Or do not, it observed, as Chaos did not move to do so- or, whatever counted for moving mentally in another plane of existence. Very well. I do so despise to exert more force than I have to, but you no longer get a choice in the matter. The mist swirled more quickly, forming a single tendril that pierced Chaos’s own formless being.

It was much like being run over by a horse, they mused. Or perhaps standing on a piece of dynamite as it exploded. Or maybe being shot through the heart with an arrow. A piercing stab of sharp pain struck through their brain like shrapnel, tearing and ripping through. She cried out, clutching her head, distantly aware of Centross asking them if they were okay, steadying her. Through the pain, the mist seemed to thin, the physical world superimposed over it like a map being overlayed everything. The blistering pain subsided, leaving spots dancing over her vision. After a moment, she realized they were not spots, but auras- the void and the world combined, one in each eye, to guide her.

“Take us back down to the main base,” she groaned, a migraine of a headache pounding through her skull. Centross obliged, leading them quickly down the flight of stairs. “Left,” she told him as they wound though a sharply turning hallway, following the shimmering teal-green-and-purple aura that glowed like a froglight. “Left again. Right. Go straight. Right. Left.” Together, they managed to make it through the halls, with one supporting and one guiding. The headache pounded onwards, settling right behind her eyes, but they continued on still. “Left. Okay- stop.” They looked up, seeing the beams of the aura straight above them as she stood at the foot of the stairwell. “Perix is up there,” Chaos gasped, letting go of Centross to lean against the wall, attempting to clear the headache as they rubbed their temples.

“How did you do that?” The knight’s voice was soft, quiet, and yet it seemed far too loud to Chaos. “Your expression- those glassy eyes- it looked like all the other times you’ve spaced out randomly, but… you were talking… it almost sounded like you were having a… a conversation… Chaos, who were you talking to?”

“That’s the funny thing,” the Sheith’ora said, managing a small laugh. “I have no idea.”

Chapter Text

The waters are growing colder.

It happens every star-cycle, just near the end. The shadows grow longer, the nights consume more of the day, the sun gives less heat than normal. All things will be covered in frost and ice, the cold glass of the frozen moons. The leaves have fallen already, covering the ground in what was once the color of fire and warmth. Now, they have turned the hue of the mud around them, the grass having changed from its brilliant shades of algae and moss to a shade of the storm clouds above. Everything moves on in life.

Except me, I suppose.

I know it’s not my place to change, but… is this all that I am good for? To remain here, in this valley, to never leave this river? I must go, soon. I run out of pages far too quickly. But… if I go, I leave her. She’d be even more dead than she already is, and I don’t know if I truly want to leave her. She was a sister to me. She was a savior to so many. I want to honor her by remembering her, and by staying here. But… do I not also have a purpose? Do I not also have some reason for existing, other than to purely be alive? Something must have given me this life for a reason. One of the gods has made my heart beat and my lungs breath and my eyes open. I trust in them, I trust in their plan, probably far more than I should, if I am being completely honest with myself.

And yet they never visit. They never say hello. I live in a world of my own, a world where humans cannot perceive me and gods will not see me. I am alone. Completely and totally alone, without her. Gods, why did she die? Why couldn’t Haley do more? She told me she said goodbye, but… I want more. I want to see her again, and yet the only person who can do that is in Chorusan, working directly under a goddess-queen. Then again, I suppose Priestesses of Epros would be in high demand- if she’s told them who she is, that is. Knowing Haley, and whatever that thing she summoned is, she would be one to tell everyone exactly who she is and what she is capable of. She is power-hungry and ambitious- I do not think she would keep some of her secrets for very long.

I wish I had secrets to keep. Instead, I only have memories and emotions that are detached from anything I can remember. Memories no one else holds. Emotions I cannot explain, for I do not believe anyone who is not a spirit of the world would be able to understand it, and there is naught a soul out here that is of that origin, other than myself. Gods, I feel as though I write in circles- ‘I am alone. The world is changing. I am alone. I miss my sister. I am alone.’ My mind is a loop, my life is a cycle, my writing is just the same repeating messages over and over and over again.

How do I escape this? What am I supposed to do? I cannot continue living this exact same pattern on repeat for the rest of my immortal life! I don’t know what to do- do I run? Do I stay? Do I flee the reaches of the gods? Do I dissipate my soul? Is there anywhere that is safe, anywhere where I cannot be found? Any place left on this godsforsaken planet where I won’t be traced or found or slaughtered or hunted like an elk? Must I be an outcast? But there is no place for me to go- I have no plan or shadow of an idea on what I can do, on what will be the best choice.

There’s darkness on the horizon, more than just that which is caused by the shorter sun and the cold air. Something is about to happen, something which is going to change everything. Is it my purpose? Is it the reason I exist? Will it give me the function I have longed for? That which I have searched all part of my life for? I, too, have a destiny, a destiny to do more than sit in this mud puddle of a river and mourn someone who died years ago. Gods, I hope I can figure this out, because I am lost and confused and lonely. I need to escape, somehow.

Or I could kill them all- I could rend their heads from their shoulders; I could watch their blood drip slowly into the grass as a nourishment to my sister. I could listen to their screams for as long as I wanted. I could hunt them down, one by one. I could make them fear me. I could bathe in their life force like rubies, watch it drip from my nails and trickle through my hair. Oh, how delicious it would be to achieve my vengeance on them for all the tiny things throughout the years, the slow buildup of insanity. Not just the ones nearby- all, all of them. Every single one. That could be my purpose, to trail intestines across the grass and entrails through the trees, to halt the sun and roast them until their skin blisters and peels.

What a symphony of suffering and screaming would kiss my ears! What a song of pure joy and pleasure for me, to hear their dying words, their strangled sentences, their speech slur and mix. The raspy breaths as the light fades from their eyes. The way they thrash and spasm, and then fall deathly still. That would be a purpose! The cause of my life, the reason I still breath and see and move. Oh, to tear open their stomachs and to watch the fountains of the bleeding sun pour forth in pumping waves!

…Ah, forgive me. I fear my mid-star-cycle personality is still clinging on. Hazards of being a… how do the Godkillers say it? An Ish’kalan. Personality that changes with the tides of the ocean. How… fitting. Well, perhaps I can indulge my Middle personality a bit, when I find my purpose. After all, if the Sheith’ora kill spirits, why can a spirit not kill mortals?

-Entry 38,448
Signed: Aecieana

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The sword in Centross’s hand was, miraculously, not shaking, which Chaos saw as quite the improvement. Was he still quite likely to die? Of course. He was a human. It’s basically their job to die. But at least he was not having a full-blown panic attack like the Godkiller had been half-expecting him to, considering the fact that she was about to drag him into battle against a deity his entire culture essentially following blindly and almost worshipped, a second-in-command to a goddess who drafted sixty percent of her subjects into a war they did not cause nor wanted to fight. Also, slightly irrelevant note, but Perix could, in fact, create illusions and hallucinations, meaning she could make Chaos kill Centross and generally break the Sheith’ora’s brain- AGAIN. They were getting quite annoyed by entities deciding her mind was a mental battlefield- first the Windwraith, then the strange voice, then a goddess. They weren’t entirely sure which one was the worst- they were all equally annoying and possibly satisfying to stab.

Speaking of her skull getting cracked, the void and the auras were still overlaid on the world like stained glass, the beating, pounding headache having dulled to the back of the mind. The purple and green glow shown like a flare just above them as they crouched on the stairs, preparing to enter the room from which the aura and the clicking of footsteps emitted, still blazing in their mind and echoing through their ears when she closed their eyes. Chaos could hear Perix’s voice, now, loud and strong. It was surprisingly clear and sharp as crystal, flowing out of her like rapids in a river, reverberating down the stairwell.

“Are you ready?” Centross whispered, his own vocation barely more than a breath. Chaos nodded, not entirely confident in their ability to be stealthy. They had realized that the towers had perfect acoustics so that the slightest of noises from intruders or invaders could be heard from the occupants within. And yet, although Perix could be heard well enough, there was a strange and unfamiliar hollowness to it, as though it was being sucked away from her lungs as they spoke. As they stood, entering the room, it was as though a bubble of humming energy surrounded them, covering every part of them. The rustling of their fabric vanished, and yet sharp noises like the clicking of heels across the room seemed unaffected save for suddenly seeming too sharp and loud. A tall woman in the center was speaking to a servant as she walked, the source of those clicks.

Centross forgot what breathing was and how to do it.

It wasn’t that Perix was pretty, per se. ‘Pretty’ just didn’t cover it. She had the eternal, unnatural youth and elfish beauty that pertained to all immortals and spirits, pointed ears giving sign of their heritage. Soft, shoulder-length hair floated around them like a cloud, each individual strand of hair shifting from the deepest of magentas to the palest rose to the most shadowed of violets and back once more, unnaturally reflective and iridescent, as though made from spun glass. Their features were equally as sharp as fractured mirrors, carved from ivory with a steel knife. Light from the wide floor-to-ceiling windows refracted through her hair, turning their face a shade of rose quartz. Dark lashes framed almond-shaped eyes like sea glass, a sparkling green of aventurine and emerald, piercing and sharp and otherworldly, all at the same time.

She wore armor the color of storm clouds, strangely dark and blocky against the rest of her ethereal appearance despite how sleek and form-fitting it was. Their chestplate was made of overlapping slats of iron and steel like scales on a dragon, hundreds of tiny hissing plates that twisted and rippled like ice as she moved. Beneath the gray, wisps of glowing teal swirled about as though she was a Windwraith, aquamarine flutters and curls that wrapped around them in a strange parody of smoke before vanishing into the air. A glimmering jewel was set into the top of the front like an eye, glowing sparks of white light trapped within it, hovering and glimmering like fireflies. Similar gems and mists were around the leg armors and boots, long hinged serrated claws of diamonds fastened to her gloves.

The aura of the goddess slammed into her like a truck as they approached, the slightly blurring of Chaos’s vision, the world becoming seemingly fake and unrealistic, her mind disassociating from that which she was perceiving, as though she was watching a scene form in her mind while reading a scroll. Shadows flickered in doorways, shapes appearing and vanishing with every one of their heartbeats.

“What, you’ve never seen a goddess before?” Chaos chuckled under her breath, amused at Centross’s star-struck reaction and panicked breathing, focusing on that in an attempt to dismiss the aura’s influence. She herself had not seen a deity in the flesh, as Epros had been a formless mass of darkness and shadow with a solid shape wreathed deep within the smoke, impossible to see, but Sheith’ora scrolls contained detailed records of the gods Husked, one aspect of which being the drawings inked into the paper. Perix was rather beautiful, but Chaos had half an idea that she was using illusions to enhance that which already existed.

The room itself was massive, with tall vaulted ceilings that appeared to reach to the tip of the spire. Equally long windows span the circumference, the glass as clear as air and frosted with silver along the seams. The walls seemed porous, with the texture of steel wool and were covered with maps and diagrams, dark charcoal marks along the papers that covered the long wooden table that ringed the space in neat stacks amid strange contraptions that dripped colored liquids into thin fluted vials and crushed substances into powder and pulp. Thin strands of metal suspended steel lanterns glowing with soul flames in the middle of the room, a foot or two above the ground, varying from lantern to lantern. The curved wall to the left held shelves upon shelves of bottles, some empty and others filled with liquids. Other than the servant Perix was speaking to, there were no other occupants within the tower.

“…een we will be continuing the tests for the approaching weeks, but the majority of the first batch appear successful. Several more mornings and they should be moved into final processing before usage.” Her voice seemed a bit clearer, now that the two were in the bubble of warped sounds with them, but it was still as though she was yelling at the top of their lungs but their voice was swallowed up quickly. “It would help if I could borrow Haley once her trainings with Haeihaei have finished.” The servant nodded, making a quick note on their sheet of paper, then bowed and whirled away. Perix’s eyes snapped up to Chaos and Centross as they approached and the smoldering thread of anger in the Sheith’ora trembled and glowed, trying to set fire and burn ablaze. “Ah- you must be the Signed that the guard notified me about. Welcome.”

Chaos gave her a small smile. “Thanks.” In one fluid movement, she unsheathed her knives, slashing one towards her neck, where the armor did not cover, and the other stabbing through the interlocking scales of the armor. It bounced off of the steel plates like a dagger off of diamond as Perix made a strangled noise, stumbling backwards and clutching at her neck. Red leaked out between their fingers as Chaos moved forwards, advancing on her. Centross unsheathed his sword, following on their heels. Perix froze for a split second, her eyes glowing, before vanishing into thin air like water thrown into the ocean. A muttered curse was breathed from both of the attempted killers as they spun around, trying to locate the goddess. She struggled to focus on the air, the swirling mists of the void and the distant glowing auras messing with her vision.

The auras!

Sure enough, a vaguely humanoid-shaped cloud of luminescent particles in shades of leaf and petal was moving towards the archway which led back to the stairs, the texture of the room’s walls absorbing the sound of her movements. Flicking her wrist, Chaos threw one of the Netherite daggers at the aura, the light from the windows catching off of the edge as it moved. There was a slight blur in the air, then a sound like the wind being knocked out of someone’s lungs as the knife hovered midair as though stuck in something. Slowly, the knife moved sideways as Perix’s body thudded to the ground, reappearing in chunks as though paint was being streaked across them.

The goddess did not look as though she was doing too well. The knife was buried up to the hilt in their neck, the point poking out of the other side as blood pooled around her, a strange tealish-blue. Their chest rose and fell quickly as they gasped for air, those unearthly green eyes fixed on Chaos with a piercing glare as the Godkiller approached. “You can’t kill me, you stupid mortal,” she rasped out. “I’m a god. The only people who could kill me are dead- I killed them. And if you- if you think I’m going to apologize for ridding the world of that filth, you can go to hell, you… human.”

Something like the sun exploded in Chaos’s stomach- hot and scorching anger seared her, their hands clenching into fists around the hilt of the knife in Perix’s throat. They leaned forward until their mouth was by the deity’s ear before whispering, “Not a human, Sheith’ain.” Realization and panic appeared in Perix’s eyes as, gripping the dagger, Chaos pulled on the blade, letting it rip upwards, into Perix’s head. Bands of light rippled through the dark metal and into the corpse of the goddess, refracting and bouncing back until it coated the dagger in luminescence, gathering in the Sheith’ora’s hand. She pulled her fingers into a fist, raised it above the goddess, and slammed it into their stomach. A blast of white lightning flickered through the ground outwards, runes and symbols in Elspire glowing in stark brilliance on the dark floor for a moment like trapped snow-burning suns, bright as the falling moon and fleeting as shooting stars across the winter sky. They climbed like vines up the walls, there for a moment and then gone as it appeared and faded in a wave that gathered in a single point at the top of the roof. The bolt flashed with eye-scorching intensity throughout both the void and the world, for a short moment separating the layers of reality like pages in a book. There was a brief flash, and then the world collapsed back into itself.

Chaos stood above Perix’s corpse in a suddenly still and silent room, Centross staring in hesitant confusion. Slowly, the Godkiller bent down and pulled the dagger out of the goddess’s throat with a sickening squish as the knight approached. “How do you kill them?” he asked softly, tracing his hands over the face of corpse of the fallen Perix, looking vaguely sad and… disappointed, as though he’d been expecting the deities he’d put so much trust in to put up more of a fight, to win, to survive. She could imagine that to see something you had placed your faith into for centuries and millennia fall that easily, to die that quickly… well, to say it would be hard would be quite the understatement.

Chaos sighed, wiping her knives on their pants to clean the tinted blood off of the dark Netherite blades. “Gods bleed, Centross. And if something bleeds, I can kill it.” She stared at her reflection in the now-clean daggers. A gore-splattered face stared back at them, haunted brown eyes overshadowed by grief and memory. There was a slight glow to their skin, residue of the Husking, turning them pale and ghostly, a spirit from another world, for that was all they were. A stranger, living on borrowed time. Did they matter, truly? Did anyone care? Was their only purpose to kill and destroy and desecrate and dishonor?

“You alright, Cha?” Centross’s voice seemed far away, as though he was speaking underwater in a long tunnel, echoing and blurred. Cha. Her old friends had called her that- Ion, nicknamed ‘Marek’, for their name in Elspire, Havoc, called ‘Lolla’ in a likewise fashion. Flare. Volt. Dead and gone. Bled dry like stuck pigs. Butchered with axes and struck down by swords held by gods. Cha. ‘Left behind’ in Elspire, yet another cruel joke played on them by the universe, ironic and all too bitterly accurate. “Chaos?”

She flinched. “Yeah. Forgive me, I should have warned you. Husking a god has strange consciences upon the Sheith’ora who does it. The side-effects vary from deity to deity, as it depends on what their realm of influence and power was, but the common factor is that it has serious effects on your thoughts and perception of the physical world, so I think it is safe to say you can expect me to be experiencing things that are not there and having poisoned thoughts about myself. It will pass, eventually, but it will be unpleasant.” Or, if my hypothesis is correct… my Husking of Epros is still continuing to plague me, given the way the void seems to have changed in its reaction to me and how I cannot view auras without the help of that… thing of an entity.

“Huh.” He frowned, small lines creasing his brow. “Does it only affect the Husk-ie? Husker? Husk… The person who Husked the god? Or does it affect other, too? Will it affect your ability to kill deities? How does that happen?” His eyes darted around, fingers tapping anxiously against the edge of his leather sheath as he placed his sword back into it, shoulders tensed.

“Yes. Husker. No. Probably not. Explain it to you later. Let’s go- they’re going to find her soon, not to mention the fact that that Husking was pretty noticeable.” Chaos tugged Centross along, racing down the stairs. The headache from the consciousness breaking through her mental shields so she could see the auras had faded more, nothing more than a pulse. The auras themselves glittered sharply around them, one a emerald green so bright it looked like a supernova, and the other a darker, muted, more… faded, almost, its pale ice-blue barely visible. They steered the knight towards that one, recognizing it for what it was: the aura of a god of light and darkness who was grief-broken and willingly dying. There was a shade of discoloring beside it, as though a reflection of a very distant aura was standing beside Haeihaei’s own, nothing more than a ripple that glimmered in and out.

They navigated swiftly through the halls until they reached a small, thin tower. The stairs up to it were long, leading to a room that was barely more than ten feet in diameter. Chaos charged into it, the second of the two Netherite knives already flying through the air to find its home in stomach of Haeihaei. Silver blood bloomed across their white linen pirate-style shirt, dripping down across their black pants and soft leather boots as they toppled to the ground, gray-blue cloak crumpling beneath them. The deity’s snow-colored eyes filmed over, a small pulse of light whisking its way out of their body in thin strands of light, forming to a tiny ball around Chaos’s hands, then flicked upwards towards the ceiling, dispersing in a shower of white sparks.

“What the-” The voice, strangely layered and doubled, came from the second figure in the room, one the hurrying Sheith’ora had not noticed before. Chaos whirled around to face them, a hesitant fraction of a time wondering if the black tendrils that had faded away as they turned were caused by the handiwork of the post-Husking, or if something deeper was happening. “What did you- you- did you just KILL HAEIHAEI?!?”

She looked normal enough, like a regular mortal human. Short collar-bone-length brown hair the color of mud-streaked walnuts was marked by a single strand of hair near the front, one the color of dawn clouds and the first freezes of Frosthaven. She had the typical purple Enderlander eyes, only one was a pale lilac and the other a dark, nearly black violet. They had the same strange appearance as Centross’s, the same swirling clouds within, as though mist was trapped within, moving around two obsidian chunks of pupils, piercing and black to their cores. The stranger wore a black tunic and pants, knee-high boots in the same shade of ebony. A spun shoulder-cloak of soft silk the color of ink was around the upper parts of her arms and around her neck, the hood down so her soft, delicate features were visible. The iron-colored edging on the cape gave her a colder look, matching with the silver rings and armbands etched with unfamiliar symbols. A single steel circlet bands their brows, holding their hair in place and dangling a small chunk of opal from it. She bears two swords, cross behind her back, the blades curved like scythes, gilded tassels dangling from them. A small row of knives in strange shapes, almost ceremonial-style, all carved with sigils and runes, line her waist. As she tilts her head to study Chaos and Centross, the Sheith’ora notices a marking on her neck, one akin to the marks worn by the priestesses at the Ath’hala.

“You’re a Sheith’ora, aren’t you?” The stranger’s voice is cold and unyielding, reverberating around the small room and vibrating the floor and walls. It is no longer the layered voice heard earlier, that having been replaced by a scratchier tone, as though she had been screaming loudly for quite some time. Centross unsheathes his sword as Chaos grips his wrist. Vertigo overtakes her, the room swaying slowly around her as though they stand on the deck of a ship. The knight’s eyes widen in the corner of their vision, gently tugging her upright when she nearly topples over. “You bear the Trace of Perix… you killed her as well, did you not? I am glad to see you suffer still from your deed, you Child of Kinaxus.” She spits out the title as though it is a curse, as though she does not desire to hold it on her tongue for any longer than what is necessary.

“Okay… You seem to know a lot about my friend here,” Centross says conversationally, his own voice surprisingly steady. “Sure, we killed Perix and Haeihaei. If you know so much about the Sheith’ora, surely you know about why they Husk them, right?”

She hisses, and for the briefest of moments the walls appear to writhe with snakes. Chaos sinks to her knees, knowing that the effects are only growing stronger. From beside her, Centross swallows, letting go of her hand and turning to the priestess-like woman, whose eyes nearly glow with rage. “They killed my Deity- or, more specifically, this one did.”

“But… Chaos only killed... Oh my gods…” His voice fades away as understanding dawns upon him, followed by horrified disbelief and the unwillingness to accept what is true. Chaos, from the floor, closes her eyes, mustering the strength to shake their head slowly.

“That’s not possible,” she croaks out, feeling another wave of dizziness and nausea sweep over her as the room shifts to glowing coals and steaming lava for a second. “Epros never had Priestesses- never had followers. They despised that type of thing, I thought- They thought Kinaxus was weak and foolish for being close to those who were not other gods, for finding solace and friendship and teaching in the Sheith’ora. Epros would never… voi wouldn’t…” They shift their blurry gaze to where the woman stares coldly down at her. “Who are you?” Chaos whispers.

The woman does not blink. “Soldier,” is all she says, turning to address Centross. “Your friend is obviously in no condition to fight, and even if she was in perfect health, I doubt they could win against me, let alone while the Trace lingers on them still. I do not claim to know why you, who are so obviously one of our own, would fraternize with such a being, let alone assist them in killing our beloved gods, who protect us and nurture us and lead us, but if you turn against her, if you renounce your actions and return to the fold, now, I will make sure you are pardoned and go free, that you hold no mark on your record, and that you are promoted- or, perhaps, would you like to leave the army? To return to your life? Say the word, leave this swine of a god-child and join us once more.”

Centross hesitates, and Chaos already knows what he will say. Is there really a choice? To betray someone who resents his culture and his gods and his entire race and who never really fully trusted him, as well as leave the war he hates so much and to return to his farm where Martin awaits? Or to lose his entire life, everything he has built, all of the things he has ever done, to turn his back on it all, to never be able to return to it, to refuse the offer of one close to the gods and to choose a Sheith’ora over the word of one who claims to be a Priestess to the most beloved of his gods? He will betray her. He is a mortal- it is in his nature to choose what is best for him and for his society.

He is not a Sheith’ora, Chaos, no matter how much you want to think of him as one, he is not and never can be one. Let it go.

She closes her eyes, bracing for the end, and almost misses the blow.

There is a clang, followed by a heavy thump like a body hitting the floor- but it does not come from Chaos’s death. Her eyes crack blearily open as hands hoist her upwards and sling her over a shoulder covered in muscles and stiff, pointy armor, but they cannot complain or move. Through their blurred vision, she can make out stairs and walls and paintings moving past, the jolting cadence of someone running as they pick up speed, moving more rapidly. A clatter of boots against stone steps as they descend downwards. A sharp turn, followed by another. A crossroads. Another flight of stairs. More turns and more steps, always downwards, until Chaos’s mind fuzzes over completely, her mind slipping in and out of consciousness quickly, like a seal through the frosted waves.

Tiredness pulls at her eyelids, brief glimpses of hallucinated shadows or sudden changes or beasts appearing and vanishing with every pounding heartbeat. They feel both all too aware and tired at the same time, their brain honing in on every grunt of effort from the person carrying them and every whoosh of blood through their ears. Sights are sounds and feelings are smells, the world a blotchy abstract reality of colors and hues and tints and shades, come and go and stop and start, balance and inequality and straight and curved, soft and hard and sharp and warm, emotion and sensation and experience and imagination. Nothing is everything and time is inverted, reality and visualization melding together into something of a nightmare and a dream in one.

The halt is so unexpected it jolts her away as Chaos feels their body being set onto the ground, her back pressing into something cold and damp. It takes a few forced blinks for the leaden feeling on her eyes to lift, and not a small amount more to focus the surroundings into sharp clarity.

She is on the floor in some long tunnel, half-lying down and half-propped up against a wall made of old stone bricks, some of which are covered with moss or lichen. It is dimly lit by flickering lanterns, but they can vaguely make out rows upon rows of doors made of iron bars interlocking and connecting, almost woven together. Two large wooden doors stand at the end, locked and bound with chains. A dark shape sits next to her with a worried expression, and her heart twists into a melted lump of lead in her chest.

It’s Centross.

“You didn’t take the deal?” He jolts as she speaks, her voice rusty and creaking like an unoiled hinge. The knight leans over, urgency in his gaze as he studies Chaos’s face, tilting her head to check her eyes. The Sheith’ora laughs slightly, the snort changing into a cough as she doubles over, clutching her chest. “Stupid human,” she murmured, giving him a small smile. “You don’t know how to survive.”

Tears form in his eyes as he tried to return the smile, choaking back a sob. “Oh my god- you’re alive.” Centross is trembling, his fingers shaking slightly. “You- you don’t understand- you looked re-really bad, Cha- I thought- you-you might be- dead-” He wiped the water from his eyes, struggling to control his breathing.

“You… saved me?”

A weak chuckle. “Do- don’t get used to it, G-godkiller.” Chaos leans her head back, resting it against the wall, surveying the area around them. It’s a prison, she realized, something she probably should have noticed earlier, only they had come scarily close to dying from the Trace of Perix, if Centross was correct. There were no windows, no skylights, no glimmer of natural light. No sounds of carriages or laughter or voices carried through the walls- only the still silence of being underground. The auras have faded as well, vanished without a trace, but Chaos does not need them.

“Centross,” she spluttered out. He tried to hush her, tried to tell her to save her strength, but she pushed away his hand. “There’s no other gods in here except Enderian.” Silence fell, a disbelieving silence in which one party wondered if they other had gone insane or if they had cracked their head. “I’m serious,” she told him, struggling to sit up more, “there’s no other deities here. Soraza’s gone- she’s not here either. I can’t see her aura- any aura, actually, save for Anderian’s.” They chose not to tell him about the phantom aura they had seen earlier, the one next to Haeihaei’s.

“That’s- that’s not possible- …oh gods, she’s at Tribul.” Bleak acceptance.

Tribul. The Town that Was a Bridge. Arc of Nations. Bandage of the War. It had known many names, for once it had been two small villages one either side of the border, one to each side of a river, one an Enderlands town, and the other a Fableon. Time had passed, and each town had grown in its respective areas, slowly creeping closer and closer over the river. Eventually, the cities began to fuse together, with the inhabitants on both sides mingling and interacting with those of the other. A vote was held on whether or not to keep the towns separate, the latter of which one, followed by a vote on what they were going to name the newly-created village, as neither party wanted to keep the other’s name. Thus, Tribul was created, for they called it a ‘spawner of trials and tribulations.’ Even in the midst of the impending war, Tribul had remained completely peaceful and neutral, the first step towards stopping the fighting altogether. It had been used as a common-ground site for political meetings for years, ergo it was not surprising to hear Soraza, the ambassador and head negotiator of the Enderlands, had gone there, likely to speak with Fableon.

Centross sighed unhappily. “Whatever, it’s fine. So what if we can’t kill Soraza- we need to go. They’re going to find Perix and Haeihaei’s corpses soon, and the woman who tried to get me to betray you won’t stay knocked out forever. I hit her pretty hard, but she’s not going to stay unconscious. C’mon.” He held out his hand, and Chaos took it, although her mind was far away, on anything but leaving. I wanted to hit them where it hurt. I wanted them to feel pain and confusion. If we can’t kill Soraza, we failed. If we cannot kill them all, we have to make them pay in another way… A slow smile spread across her face. “Chaos?”

“Centross,” the Godkiller said slowly, “how fast can you unlock cell doors?”

Chapter Text

There are voices.

They rose him from his slumber, filling the night with noise, echoing down the halls and rushing into his cell like water into cupped hands. The stone ledge which services as a place of rest scratches beneath his claw-like fingernails as they push themself to their feet, pale white lines the color of bone. The cell is covered in them- some, like the ones just now created, are accidental. Some are purposeful, his desperate attempt to mark how many days it has been since he has felt the sun on his face. Some were created in various wild fits of rage, talon-scores into solid rock. On one end of the cell, there are the beginnings of a hole dug into the rock floor, the start of a tunnel he had begun but never finished. The guards had done surprise rounds and he had not had time to replace the small chest that had been covering it before they caught it.

His stomach still holds the phantom pain from those three days without food. When he closes his eyes, he can still feel the suffocating darkness of solitary. It represses his instinct to dig, to escape, to tear and shred his way out of this rock prison. They miss the sun, desperately, with every fiber in their being. They want up, out, away, far, far away. To the end of the horizons and the beginning of the worlds. He longs to feel the salty spray of the ocean against his hands and the warmth of the sun against their face.

Instead, he is trapped. He is locked away. He hides behind a mask of his own making, a disguise crafted from the bones of the ones he lived beside. They call him the Mad Dog. He is not a dog, nor his he mad. He is a son of wolves, and he longs for freedom and sunlight, only they were imprisoned in a cold world of unnatural metal and damp stones, kept captive by the will of a mind goddess. Better a deity than a Sheith’ora, at least. How anyone could let them live was beyond his understanding. They killed gods for no reason, slaughtered innocents and ruined lives. They would appear, only to cause mayhem and havoc, and then vanish away so the after-effects could not influence them.

The world was crazy for keeping them alive. To let them survive onwards, to continue breathing. To not cut them down on sight. To not finally resist them. To not destroy every single Godkiller. They were monsters, merciless and cold-hearted. Synonymous with suffering and destruction, they did not care who lived or died as a result of their traitorous butcheries, heartless and cold to the humans who they viewed as lesser, inferior creatures, something to simply get around or to trample beneath their feet, a mere roadblock in their path of mass-murder. The Husking of Alerion had caused the toppling of the entire nation of Aethercadena, displacing millions of refugees and starving thousands who tried to help reclaim the country. The Husking of Netherum had left their country in shambles until Queen Soul had taken over, the grief sweeping the land and pausing production for days. The Husking of Gamgibian had caused the mental health of another deity to plunge, rendering them more or less useless and broken… and… the other part.

The part he didn’t talk about. The sad part. The part that broke a little more inside of him every time he thought about it. The part that they tried to fix and mend with anger and an oath of vengeance, but never fully filled the cracks or stopped the shattering of his heart like threads of glass. The part of that story he never could tell, the part of the tale that he avoided like the plague, the part of the fable that made him punch walls or people when it filled his mind. Grief was the mother of rage and tears. It made him dangerously unstable, made him escalate between howling and sobbing, fire and water, sun and moon, ember and ice, his twin natures spawned by his human heritage and feral bloodline.

His sister had always controlled them, or maybe she never had them in the first place. She was calm and collected and serene at all times, a smooth wall of steel that blocked out the chaotic emotion she did not need, those of pain and grief and anger and hate and despair. He had never seen her cry, not once, until the day his father died. That was one of the reasons why he left, the realization that they weren’t all perfect and that, the longer he was around Hope, the more his own natures would appear and affect her own. He did not desire to ever see her cry again.

The voices raised into a crescendo, almost akin to an argument, one with words not audible to his ears, even as sharp as they may be. Lyric-less music, silent shouts, cryings of anger wordless and nothing more than needless, unnecessary noise. And yet, they make him pause, make him pace to the edge of his cell and peer into the dimly lit gloom, letting his eyes adjust and change, for there is something about those voices, one sounding strange and alien and unfamiliar, like a song that no one knows, the rushing of the river against rocks, or the brisk dance of the breeze across plains as wide as the world, endless and boundless and unyielding.

And there stands a man in the middle of the hall, tall in the usual Enderlands guard way, like a sapling willow. He seems to wait for something impatiently, a tapping foot against the floor as his head repeatedly turns away from Wolf and back to facing the far wall, as though anxiously tossing glancing looks towards the guards door. The prisoner likes his nervous energy, for few of the wardens and prisonkeepers possess it, if any at all do. It is as uncommon as snow in Netherium, new to his being, refreshing, in some way, to see something uncommon and unique after the months of being trapped within the cell, deep underground.

There is a soft, muted clang of metal against flesh, followed by a thud of bodies against the ground and a quiet pattering like rain as a second figure appears out of the gloom. She is smaller than the first, and moves as though she is in pain or stiffness, an uneven gait as she sways slightly, a new branch in the wind. A faint outline of light emits from her skin like a fuzzy aura of a god, nothing more than a mere reflection of brilliance. Despite their unsteadiness, there is a sort of predatorial grace that lines her movement, as though they are ready to leap into a battle. Dangling from their hand is a ring of keys, glinting softly in the lantern light.

They speak in soft tones, one side a typical Enderlands accent, the other the unknown speech he had heard earlier. The keys change hands as the Enderlands guard-figure heads towards the first cell in the row, the door creaking open slightly as he unlocks it and swings it open. The second figure, the injured woman, entered the cell as the guard moved to the next one, unlocking it, swinging it open, and moving on. There is a slight noise, then the woman emerges from the first cell, followed by another shape, and enters the second cell. Three emerge. His eyes widen as he realizes what is happening, understanding the way the sleepy confusion on the prisoners’ faces is joined by blossoming joy and tentative hope.

They were releasing the prisoners.

------------------------------------

“You’re insane!” Centross tossed back at Chaos as they swung more cell doors open. The Godkiller vanished inside, shaking awake the occupant and gesturing out to where the other prisoners stood. In the beginning, they had taken the time to tell each one they were escaping, but as it stretched longer, they had simply begun letting the other prisoners explain it to the newcomers. Perhaps it helped that Chaos did not have guard or prisonkeeper clothing, that she was dressed in something closer to traveler or Fableon spy than anything else.

They were in the part of Anderian’s prison reserved purely for political-related prisoners- soldiers, enemy residents, possible spies, those taken captive in hopes of becoming a bargaining tool. It was only part of the whole thing, according to Centross, only a mere fraction of a system so strangely ordered and detailed it made little sense to anyone but the Queen. A single labyrinth of winding corridors, single rows of cells and solitaries, branch and split, double-back and return, corkscrew and repeat, loop and fork. It was a maze, an unending maze designed to be difficult to enter but even harder to exit. In Chaos’s opinion, they should’ve created it to be impossible to break into, which would save any possibility of escape from either intruder or prisoner. Centross had simply picked random paths and ran for it, hoping that anyone searching for them would find it difficult to follow.

Centross flung open another three doors, quickly pulling the occupants out. “We don’t have much time, Cha!” he warned as the prisoners staggered into the growing crowd of confused and yet desperately hopeful people. “You were out for a while, it’s honestly surprising that they haven’t sounded the ala-” He was cut off by a shrill and yet steady noise from far above, slightly dimmed by the distance and the stone, a tone something like the chiming of a bell and a strange, unfamiliar avian creature. It vibrated through the walls, buzzing along the floor. The half-freed prisoners startled back, surprise, shock, anxiety, and fear flashing through their eyes and changing their expressions. Centross swore under his breath. “Great,” he muttered. “I just HAD to say something.”

Chaos rattled the lock on the cell door, trying to turn the key. “C’mon, c’mon,” they muttered, attempting to get it to move in the corroded, rusted metal. “Open, already…” They shook it harder, now unable to move the key within the lock or even take it out again. Giving up, they pulled out one of their knives, hacking through the iron band and snapping the whole thing off. Inside, the cell inhabitant, a blond-haired man in a Netherium uniform frowned, fingers twitching as though searching for a sword.

One of the prisoners, a broad-chested man wearing the remnants of a Fableon uniform, muscled his way to the front of the group, glaring at Centross and the Sheith’ora, who was assisting the Netherium soldier. “You damned people are gonna get us all killed!” he snarled above the alarm, a relatively-thick West accent obscuring his words. “It’s better to be locked up than recaptured escaping and stabbed! And you,” he said, focusing on Centross, “you probably work with the damned queen! You wear her uniform and you talk like them all too. Was this a part of some kinda plan? She needed some excuse to kill us all?” He lunged for the soldier, gripping his shoulders and shaking him. “YOU’RE GONNA KILL US ALL-”

Chaos thumped the hilt of one of her knives down upon his head, sharply cutting of his outburst of ire and desperation as he crumpled to the ground like a torn piece of cloth. For a moment, she studied his fallen body with a mix of apathy and regret. “Let me make something clear,” she said, turning to the other prisoners, raising her voice so they could hear above the still-ringing alarm. “We’re not here to kill you, or to give Queen Anderian a reason to kill you, or to do anything involving you specifically. We are not, however, here to exclusively save you just for the sake of saving you. We are here to cause chaos, confusion, and hurt within the realm of the Enderlands. If you knew what exactly I am, you would regret ever pondering the idea that I might side with filth like a god. Centross may be one of this country’s souls,” they gestured to the knight, “but he is held by honor and oath to serve and help. Now, if any of you would prefer to take your chances with the guard yourself, feel free to leave. You will not be missed. And, for those of you who choose to stay and follow us to freedom, I offer a pact of mutual respect. If you do not try to kill us, harm us, turn us in, betray us, or hinder anything we do, we will do the same for you. Now, since you have all proven with such gusto that you do not desire to be caught, I suggest we leave.”

They paused for a moment, waiting to gage the reaction of their newly-freed acquaintances. A flash of suspicion, a hint of disbelief or discomfort, but an overall, generally positive response. Centross dipped his head to Chaos, then quickly led the way down the passageway, Chaos falling behind to cover their rear. They turned a corner to be greeted with a loud snapping of iron, like a lock being pulled apart, followed by a slow creak. “Hello?” Centross called, his voice echoing through the halls, reflecting back at him like an eerie ghost’s voice and accompanied by a low, feral snarl. “Is anyone down there?” he voiced again. “We’re here to help, but we don’t have much time- we triggered an alarm by killing Perix and Haeihaei, so if you want us to help you, you have to make the choice now, or else stay here.”

The growl sounded again, two bright yellow eyes flashing from a cell in the dark like twin beams of sun. “A Sheith’ora,” the shape said softly, voice filled with menace, eyes flicking towards Chaos, who joined Centross, hand on knife hilt. “So, your filthy race has decided to show their faces once more... Bold of you to assume I’d accept your help, after what you did to Vikesh.”

“Listen,” Chaos snapped, still high on adrenaline, “I don’t know what the Sheith’ora have done in the past to you or to anyone else, but we do not have time for this. My people have already paid for it in blood and fire. Now, are you coming with us or not? Because I can assure you that the queen and her fellow deities will not be show you the same courtesy of letting you free as I will,” she said, gesturing to the gathered people behind them.

The yellow eyes narrowed, suspiciously, a slow blink covering the glow for a moment. There was a shifting of cloth, and she caught a glimpse of dark hair and pale fur against a silhouette of a large figure. “No. I think not. Whatever happened to your filth of a people, it wasn’t enough. Not to atone for what happened.” The hulking shape turned away.

“They’re dead, you idiot!” the Godkiller shouted, resisting the urge to throw a knife at his head. “Why do you think we’re here? Why do you think we came to kill Anderian? Why do you think we’re risking our necks? It wasn’t to come rescue you- this is just our way of fighting back. You know what? You can stay here. You can rot in the prisons.” She turned around, brushing past Centross and beginning to walk away, down the hall, but couldn’t resist turning around to toss back one last thing. “They were my family,” she spat.

The shape in the dark sighed, vanishing into the shadows. Chaos thought he was gone until his voice carried back softly, “And Vikesh was mine.”

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The sun was rising.

It had taken the entirety of the night, or, at least, what had been left of it, to safely get everyone out of the palace. Guards had been blocking most exits, and, as the prisoners had been unarmed, the responsibility of incapacitating the soldiers fell to Chaos and Centross, the weapons from those roadblocks now distributed around the group. Several tussles had taken place, leaving most of them with wounds or injuries of varying degrees. Two freed captives had been killed, a traveler no one knew the name of and a Enderlands turncoat named Madril. Several others had been lost, their current statuses unknown: Thiay, Serondask, and Zolmos, among others. Most likely captured or killed.

Once they had fled from the confines of the palace via killing the Northern Gate guards, the group had made a hastened dash through the city, pursued by yet more soldiers. At least fifteen innocents had been killed, caught inbetween the two parties. Yet more blood on their hands, yet more lives taken in the war between the gods and a grief-broken Sheith’ora. Centross wondered how many more would be killed; how many more would suffer because of this. And yet, how many more would die if they failed? How many more would bleed to death because of the battles between the nations if they did not kill the deities? Fifteen or fifteen million- which was worth more? Did it matter, if some of the casualties were Fableon? No, not to Centross. Once, it might’ve. Once, he might’ve decided that the war was a better path, even though his own people would die, simply because Fableon soldiers would fall with them. Now? He was not sure. Now, he thought that fifteen million was far too high of a cost to pay, no matter the currency.

And perhaps that was why he had chosen to knock the woman out up in the Stronghold, why he had chosen Chaos over his own people. Because Chaos did not hold the prejudices and the hatred for the other countries like his own did. Yes, she despised and rejected all deities save for Kinaxus, but there were far fewer gods than mortals- twenty immortals to close to thirty million humans. And she had a reason, a viable, understandable reason to loathe them. They had slaughtered those they loved. As for Centross’s people- they hated just for hatred’s sake, just because of a border and a different leader and a different lifestyle or color of eye or hair. An entire war built on that

He stood, surveying those they had freed. Close to a hundred and fifty or two hundred, by his estimate- most were high-ranking soldiers, or commanders, or politically important, the few others travelers or civilians. Even here, even now, weary and injured and on the run, they kept their distances from each other, kept separate from those of another country. Netherium-folk helped other Netherium-folk, but they did not bind the wounds of the Fableon captives. Wanderers stood apart from all, even each other, but they cast suspicious looks upon the Enderlands prisoners, the traitors of the land.

Chaos looked over them too from beside him, a hint of a frown on her face. She had wanted to keep going, to get as far away as possible, but Centross had stopped her, had convinced her to let the group rest, for they were weary and wounded. Even then, her agreement had been disapproving and hesitant, and she seemed desperately impatient to continue moving. “We need to move,” they muttered at Centross. “Anderian’s most likely already on her way towards us- I didn’t free these miserable people just to have them die on the queen’s sword.”

“Hey.” He crossed his arms. “They’re tired. Remember how difficult it was for me to travel those first few days? It’s worse for them. They’re not used to moving, having been trapped in those cells for gods know how long. Besides, I’m quite tired as well, and don’t think I didn’t notice you favoring that leg! You’re still suffering from the Trace, aren’t you?”

The Godkiller gave him a look, one that usually meant ‘stop talking or there will be a tree branch heading towards your head.’ They were not the most enthusiastic about being worried over or having people giving them concerned glances. Stubbornly, they pressed their leg firmly against the ground, as though wanting to prove that they were not, in fact, in pain. Centross did not care. He had betrayed his gods to save her and had carried her half-dead, unconscious body down into a prison. He thought that entitled him to a BIT of worrying. Which reminded him…

“We didn’t get to discuss what happened too much, but… are you sure you’re going to be okay? You nearly died in there, from that Trace of Perix, and you’re pushing yourself a bit too hard, I think. It wouldn’t kill you to take a break, you know. In fact, it might kill you NOT to take a break.”

“Traces don’t work like that,” she snapped, pacing back and forth. “At least- they usually don’t. I’ve never experienced or even heard of one being that intense, and I Husked Epros, of all gods- a Primordial! You’d think that void’s Trace would be the worst, but nope! It’s the stupid illusion goddess’s. Actually, I think it was that woman’s fault, the one who was with Haeihaei? The one who wanted you to betray me? If she was not, in fact, lying about being a Priestess to Epros, she’s probably the reason it was that bad, if you look at the facts.

“Priestesses are pretty rare- only a few deities have ever had them. Kinaxus, namely, although Anderian had a Cult going for her at one point. But Epros? No. Never wanted one- despised the idea, actually, if you believe the ancient scrolls. They hated the idea of the whole thing, temples, priestesses, religion, and all. Priestesses were usually chosen during their childhoods, known for exhibiting strange behaviors or abilities when young. They would be inducted into the Ath’hala, trained and taught by the elder priestesses, learning how to conduct ceremonies and sacrifices, how to consecrate and cleanse, how to oversee festivals and solstices, among other, more mundane things such as pouring candles, lighting candles, tending the sacred fire, memorizing associations of flowers and colors and birds and plants, and so forth.

“But that is not the point. The point is that the main sign that a child can become a priestess is the fact that they elevate the perception of a god’s power. Auras are more easily sensed, their power can be felt more deeply, the effects of that deity are far easier to be aware of and it has a much greater effect on the individual. If that woman wasn’t lying, if she really is a priestess of Epros, an unprecedented type of priestess, that would explain why the Trace had such a great impact upon me. Rather than simply giving me a few hallucinations or spatial acuity issues, it tricked my brain into nearly killing me by telling my heart I was dead, because, to my mind, I was dead. Getting me out of there- you most likely did, in fact, save my life, Centross. And I owe you that. Blood debts are serious in my culture, all oaths are. I owe you, now and forever, until that debt is paid.”

She turned to the crowd. “They’ve rested for long enough.” Raising their voice, they yelled, “Alright! Now is where we split. You’re freed, you are no longer prisoners of the Enderlands. You can go home, or travel to somewhere new, or do whatever you want. See your families. Return to your houses. Whatever you do, do it quickly, for Anderian is not a patient or forgiving goddess. She will hunt you down. Chances are, she’s already doing it. If you have no place to go, or if you want to continue assisting us in killing gods, you may come with us. But, if you choose to join us, I do not want to listen to you attempt to convince me not to Husk them. I want fighters, not those who think they can stop me with a pretty speech or a nice voice. I am a killer, not a politician. You cannot sway my opinion. If you are going to try this, or if you are delusional enough to truly believe that they’re good and just and fair rulers, leave, for you have no place with us. I’d get started, now, if I were you, for Anderian is most likely hunting us already, and I do not think you are desiring to be captured again.”

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His breathing is rough and unsteady as he claws the lock off, fingers aching and bleeding. Slowly, he eases the door open, vividly aware of the shouts and voices from nearby. They stumble through the darkness, exhaustion and pain taking over their body now that the anger and adrenaline had worn away like a rock in water. His mind is clouded, and yet he knows one thing: Today, he has seen a Godkiller. And tomorrow, if he survives the night, he knows that he must stop her, whatever the cost may be. Formerly, it was Vikesh. This time, it may be his own life.

Chapter Text

Day 16
Overworlds
Whitemist

Against all probabilities and general common sense, somehow, our sorry lives have survived and we continue living, although that might change today, depending on how fast Anderian’s army moves. Hopefully, it is slowly, although Centross does not seem quite as sure. I assume that, being a soldier of Her Royal Foolishness, he would have a better idea than I do about such things, but I still find it difficult to differentiate him between the mindless soldiers and the captive wanderers around us. He walks a middle road, the path between the two, and I do not know if I like it. I am used to everything being black and white, no gray space to speak of. In my mind, there were clear boxes into which I could divide all things. As a child, I was taught very specific things: Kinaxus was the only god who truly cared and was good. All the others had to be killed. You serve whatever position you are given, no matter what… that was a lesson hard to learn. Honor Kinaxus above all else. Only trust other Sheith’ora.

I wonder, if in some capacity, that last one is the real reason I hate Centross’s strange middle-path. I find myself implicitly wanting to trust someone, anyone, and so my mind immediately tries to think of him as a Sheith’ora so it can do so. There is nothing less Sheith’ora than HIM. He does not act the way my people would, and so I cannot think of him as a Godkiller, and so I cannot trust him. Do I unlearn a lifetime of teachings, just to accept one person and to quiet my mind? Yet another reason we prize apathy. Without emotion, you cannot get yourself tangled in this conundrum that I have, for you would never feel the need to trust. Companionship would not be required.

…Would I still desire friendship, even if it was not something I needed? Would I still try to seek it out, hunt for it like a hunting wolf on a scent? I have always had companionship. My culture builds a family-like structure in one’s Osh’ethatan, the assumption being that we would always be a cell of a sort, a Ya’eph not born into but made. I assumed that, since very few Godkillers died, that they would be the only source of this relationship that I would ever need, that they could satisfy that without me having to look outside the boundaries of my Osh’ethatan for support. Well. I was quite wrong, wasn’t I?

But… there is something so inherently wrong about looking for this friendship in a human. It curls my bones and sinks venom into my veins. Contrary to what the mortals believe, my people are not solitary creatures. We do form familial attachments to each other, lasting bonds that stretch beyond any distance. It is just… I feel as though it is wrong to attempt to form such a bond with one who is not of Kinaxus’s descendants. Here I am, the last of my kind, thousands of miles away from my home, separated by ocean and sea, and yet I am still anxious about breaking my people’s customs. Funny how my mind insists upon holding onto lingering threads of the past. I find it regularly keeping an iron grip upon that which is still has, that which it can still manage to remember and grasp tightly, that which still feels familiar and comfortable, a dewy footprint of memory still tightly pressed upon my mind.

How often do I sit in the trees throughout the night while the rest of the living world slumbers, staring at that lonesome moon that sits amid a sky awash with stars and yet so far away and distant from them? How often to my eyes betray me, leaking salted water as saline as the oceans? Oh, foul, treacherous things! They shed a sad liquid without consulting my mind, unbidden and unwanted, silver drops to rival the stars, those shedden tears of Epros, accursed may they be in the oblivion of a god’s death.

We all live under that same moon. Alerion said something like that, once, a phrase drenched in his fake hopes and dreams of a bright future where he was at the top. He died. They always do. Good intentions have bad endings, in most cases, for such is the way of the world that I now live in, that I am now forced into with no way of escape. Brethren butcher mothers and sisters slaughter fathers, friend fights friend, and children grabble with knives. Every morning, they get up in courage and in the faith that they can survive the day, that it will not be their last sunrise in the realm of those yet still breathing. They stand, perhaps in foolishness, perhaps in bravery, but they STAND. I admire that. Laugh at it, sometimes, but I can admire their reckless abandon as they face down death and yell a challenge in its face.

Courageous? Yes. Lacking in judgement? Perhaps. And yet, I see so many qualities that the Sheith’ora prize and covet reflected in these humans the longer I spend with them. Some of them are despicable, worthless, attribute-less. Others, like Centross and Hope, are good. They strive to be better, something I think all of us are learning, even me. Especially me, I suppose. My whole life has been chasing something I did not know if I could attain: perfection. Nothing short of it. It is expected from us all, demanded from us. We run blindly after it, desperate to prove ourselves worthy as well, no matter the cost. I am no stranger to seeking the betterment of oneself. It is imprinted into my genes, woven into my DNA, for I carry that which comes from a god who is no less than absolute flawlessness themself. THAT is what gods are to the humans, I suppose. Stunning. Higher than anything else in the universe. Absolute excellence.

To me, I can only see an imperfect, flawed, imperfect, defective and deficient creature who struggles with primal urges like the normal brute of a human. To me, I do not think they will ever be more than that. To me, they are not something to covet or envy. To me, they are something to be scorned and hated, something that must be eradicated and obliterated, for if it is not, it will consume us all, one by one, to feed itself. THAT. That is what a deity is to me. Not a leader, not a guiding light, not a beacon of hope and the future. Not something to worship. Not something to even think about.

All animals have that instinct, the instinct to, when bitten, bite back. When injured, to injure back. When stung, sting back. Snakes. Thur’al. Inn’nau. Honey badgers. Cougars. Humans. And, I’ll admit it, Sheith’ora. And why should we not? The universal language is redemption through violence. It is imbedded in our world, in our minds, in our society. Trial by combat. War. Restoring family honor. We are no strangers to slaughter in the name of returning to the flock. We know that blood covers all stains, harmless or not. It is the scarlet flood that covers blemish and fault. Violence may not be the answer, but is most certainly the restorer of life and honor.

This is not just vengeance. This is not just biting back. This is not slaughter for slaughter’s sake. This is reclaiming honor and reinstating the legacy and the legend of my people. This is about letting this never happen again. This is about making sure they cannot hurt anyone the same way they’ve hurt me. Yesterday, I nearly died to a Trace because of a Priestess of the deity I Husked. I failed to kill as many gods as I believed I was going to, and instead replaced their blood with the release of prisoners. Today, if I can survive, I’ll try again. And again. And again, and again, and again, until something breaks. It might be them. It might be me. It might be the world. Who knows?

Centross calls- I must go.

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Centross stood beside two figures a ways away, waiting as Chaos walked towards them, the slight limp in her step still there. Most of the group of former captives had already left, leaving a small group of travelers, the majority of who were resting against rocks while preparing to leave. They were still perched on the steep downward slope as last night, dark pine forests stretching out beneath them like a dark carpet as the sun rose to the east. Boulders of varying sizes poked out among the tall grass and occasionally thin bent trees that struggled to survive.

She stopped in front of the knight, surveying his new acquaintances. The first was the tall Netherium knight from the rusted cell they had struggled to open. His gold eyes blinked slowly, as though he was expecting a cold drop of water to land on his face, almost owlishly big. For a moment, the Godkiller hosted the idea of him being Hope’s brother when they saw the eye color, but quickly dismissed it. They did not swirl or shift the way the gemsmith’s had, and he did not carry himself the same way, lacking the above-human grace, not to mention the color of his hair. He wore armor he’d pulled from one of the Enderlands soldiers they’d knocked out, strangely shiny and clean compared to his faded orange clothing, the undergarments of a soldier. Long blond hair, typical of Netherium citizens, fell around his head, parts of it tied back, parts of it braided.

The other person was strikingly different. He was shorter, but he held himself like a king, ridged and composed. Hair the color of falling stars, although it was dirty from their time in the prison, covered his head like a cloud, short and fluffed. Milky white eyes like twin moons peered unseeingly into the world as though looking into another universe, unfocused on things seen. He wore a simple off-white linen shirt with a dark blue jacket and long black pants, nothing overly fancy, and yet the sharp cut of his jawline and the way he moved, like a dancer or a fencer, made Chaos suspect that there was more to him than first glance. His fingers twitched around the hilt of a small knife sheathed along his thigh, constantly tapping and moving as though writing with something, or perhaps searching for something lost. The other man kept one hand hovering just above his back, almost protectively, as though ready to catch him if he fell.

“Cha, this is- well, they should probably tell you,” Centross said, glancing expectantly at the two.

The first man, the one in the orange robes, gave a small bow, his hair falling in front of his shoulders. “Galahad Arthus Crimson, m’lady. I was a part of the Nexai Circle for many years until my capture several months ago during a Enderlands raid upon one of our cities.” He blinked, hesitating for a moment, too short a pause for Chaos to break in, but long enough to be noticeable. “I… was considering going back to my country, but I realized that I could be more use to it here, fighting to stop the war before it even starts. I will be honest with you: I do not believe all gods are evil, but I do know that those who threaten my nation, a neutral third party in this battle of powers, must be stopped before they kill us all.”

It was not exactly the stunning, blood-thirsty, ‘I-agree-let’s-kill-them-all’ response that Chaos had been hoping for, but it was certainly better than the inane complaining and attempts at overturning the Sheith’ora’s beliefs that she had wanted to prevent. Besides, he was, in fact, a Nexai, which meant he had to be good at fighting, even if it also meant he served under a goddess of loyalty, of all things, and was therefore most likely fiercely protective and obstinate in his view of them. He cared for his people and his country, though. She could respect that.

The person on Galahad’s right laughed, pushing their white hair away from their strangely blank, glassy pale eyes. “I have quite the opposite opinion- My great-uncle would tell me owe you a properly formal introduction, so: Greetings, my name is Prince Venas Kasuki Renax of Fableon, heir to the Fableon throne, Grand-Nephew of the Elder God King Fable Renax and son to the late King Vinorn Renax. Most call me Ven, which annoys my great-uncle greatly, but that is something I myself enjoy doing, so feel free to refer to me by whatever name you see fit, so long as it is respectable and respectful.”

“So…” Chaos blinked, rather confused, then shared a glance with Centross, who looked a bit more like a Godkiller having an amicable conversation with a prince related to one of the most powerful living gods and a knight who spent the majority of his life in the services of a deity of honor and loyalty was completely normal. “You’re a prince… and you’re the heir to the throne… and they just left you in the prison… and you’re coming along to kill… gods? As in, your great-uncle’s people? Back up a bit, Prince of Fableon- start from the beginning, because this makes little sense and I don’t enjoy being left in the dark about things.”

He dipped his head in her general direction, fidgeting with one of the buttons on his jacket in a way that Chaos would typically label as nervous or uncomfortable if he were not royalty- and why should he be scared? It was not as though they were asking him to spill his country’s secrets on the ground so they could all study them together. Was it not a simple thing to ask obvious questions that were leaving out large parts of the story? Then again, I haven’t told Centross the whole story- but, he has not asked. Has he? Suddenly, she could not remember, something which made her equally as uncomfortable as Venas. If I can’t remember, it probably means he never did, which means that I am justified in that! I am asking Venas, so it’s different.

“In truth,” they were saying, “my worth to my country would surprise you. I am not needed. There was a time where an heir was a good thing to have to keep the safety of the throne intact, but after century after century of the heirs dying and Fable living on, they no longer require me. Besides, as I’m sure you have noticed already, I’m blind. It’s a curse, one from my mother’s side. My great-uncle hardly tolerated any heir, let alone one with my condition. I was more a formality than anything else, not something to waste resources on when lost.” A small pause. “King Fable and I were not on good terms when I saw him last. He has more important things to do than spend soldiers and time retrieving a vanished prince from gods-know-where.”

“And you wish to kill him for that reason alone?” Centross asked, obvious tones of suspicion creeping into his voice.

A new emotion entered Venas’s eyes, one violently strong. Anger. Chaos knew it well, for it was on her own face every time she looked into a mirror. It made the prince pause yet again, and when he spoke, his voice shook with fury. “He cast me aside as though I were nothing. He rules with little care for his people. He lives onwards forever, never dying, never passing on the throne, never changing. He is a tyrant more than anything else, one that wears so many masks I cannot tell when he is being sincere. When he is in public, he acts the way the people expect him to: loyal, in control, strong, powerful, proud, and sure of success. To his advisors, he is noble, just, stubborn, and devoutly merciless, holding truth and justice over all else. To me, he is… apathetic, cruel, cold, heartless, self-seeking, and… filthy. He thinks that, because he is a god, humans are his playthings to do with whatever he pleases, and that I am just another human, although I am a prince, because I bear no god-born blood within me. He expects to never die. He expects that he can control everything, engrave his name and legacy on this continent so deep it will never erode away, never fade, never wear down. I could do better than him. I could rule, not as a king, but as someone who understands the people, someone who knows what it is like to hate those in control, someone who knows what it is to be dissatisfied with the way you are treated, someone who knows how poorly the commoners are treated. I could be the king he never can be. I could rule, not with a warrior’s iron rod as he does, but with a shepherd’s crook and staff. I want him dead, dead and gone like snow in the sun. That is why I seek his life.”

A silence stretched between them, the last of the other travelers departing away from them, shrinking as they traveled down the slope. Chaos studied Galahad and Venas, weighing their motives and studying them slowly. After a long moment, she held out her hand to each of them. “Chaos Eprosidin, Sheith’ora and Husker of Epros. This is Centross Daevid Mistvale of the Enderlands, my companion and bound by his word to assist us. It is an honor to meet you, but we really should get going, unless you want to kill Anderian sooner than expected.”

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Centross’s bones ache, inside and out. Their resting period seems to have only made him stiff, the dampness from the dew burning off doing little to help his joints. The group is moving through the pine forest, the ground strangely springy beneath their feet, covered with fallen needles in hues of amber, carnelian, and jasper. Trees tower above them, evergreens the color of kelp and moss, trunks spiraling towards the sky with the lowest branches high above their heads. Thin curls or misty gray and silver crawl up the trunks like a sickness, small, pale berries hanging from the lichen. The sky is hidden behind the branches, wreathing them in shadow and veiling the world despite the sun climbing rapidly on its winter arc through the heavens.

They have traveled in silence, a wary quiet surrounding them. He glances at Chaos, occasionally, not entirely surprised to see the same cautious, suspicious, closed off expression on her face as the one he had struggled to speak to for weeks during the beginning. It was an icy façade, one put up by someone who distrusted many and delt heavily in paranoia and dishonesty. It had taken days of solid, constant questions and friendly behavior to put the smallest of cracks in it, and, just when he thought he had pulled the Godkiller out of their shell and out into the open, they vanished back behind it the second there was an unfamiliar face. Maybe that was his fault, introducing Galahad and Venas to them, but how could he not? A Nexai and a Prince of the West? Allies most valuable- and they needed people they could trust. Sure, they had managed to kill two deities, but one they had the element of surprise, and the other was weakened by grief by a long dead friend, not to mention the fact that Chaos had nearly died and they had not been able to Husk Soraza.

Centross should’ve thought of that- that was his role, to Chaos: an informant, a guide to the human world that was so unfamiliar and foreign to her. He was there purely to help navigate and locate, to offer advise and experience, and if he could not do that, he risked losing his value to her. Yes, they were bound by oath, something Chaos claimed the Sheith’ora found very serious and unbreakable, but there had been no end of the deal in which Centross’s life was unharmed. All it took was a well-placed knife at the right time and Anderian’s own existence was up for grabs, and it would be his fault that the world would plunge into carnage and war. To the gods, this was nothing- battle was nothing more than a regular occurrence, bound to happen after a century or two, but to humans? To the normal commoner, it was life-changing, and not in a pleasant way. It uprooted home and hearth, changed plans and minds, disrupted their way of living, of being, of their day-to-day routine. It was a catastrophe, an event that terminated, eradicated, and massacred millions, warped common sense and executed innocents.

He had to continue onwards, had to keep moving forwards, had to strive, even in silence and distrust, or else he would feel responsible for the brutal end of thousands of lifecycles. In the bitterness, in the despair, in the uncomfortable, just as much as in the joyous, the hopefulness, the familial sense of belonging. The desert road as much as the shaded one, the highest of mountains as much as the deepest reaches of the sea. Balance. The world required balance. That meant that if they killed one god, there must be an equal death on the other side. Power to be leveled, distributed evenly.

Maybe he was beginning to understand the Sheith’ora, or maybe he was delusional, or maybe both. Maybe he was just a brain-washed fool with irrational fantasies of peace and security. Maybe he would not amount to much. Maybe he would cause the massacring of billions. Sobering thoughts, but thoughts he must mull over and carry until the time is right.

He puts his head down and continues walking.

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All in all, Galahad was having a relatively excellent day. After several months- well, what counted as a few months in a prison with no luminescence to distinguish the day from the night, meals at staggered times, and no freedom -of rotting in a cell, he was free once more, and out in the open air. Then, the opportunity had presented itself to join a group planning on killing gods, specifically Fableon deities, all while having the chance to, perhaps, prevent them from murdering his own immortals… Quite a pleasing day. The, ah, Enderlands soldier, the Fableon heir, and the bristly Godkiller were… less enjoyable.

The first, a man whose queen had throw him into a hellhole in the stronghold, whose nation was threatening a war that would, in turn, threaten Galahad’s own land, who was most likely as impudent and stuck up as the rest of his people and as pompous as an Eastern soldier could be. He hated Purple-Eyes, or whatever his name might be, quite literally from the moment he had met him, and he was semi-assured that the feeling of hatred was mutual between the two parties. He always made sure that he was between the Godkiller and the Netherium knight, as though he thought Galahad was some kind of disease to protect everyone from- as though the Enderlands and all of its misbegotten spawn were not the real plague, scourges upon the earth for true, loyal, gallant soldiers to defeat.

And, as for the Sheith’ora herself- Galahad imagined her personality boiled down to a vengeance-thirsty, anger-blinded killer who had more blood on her hands than the average ravager and was only slightly less affable to be around. She had given the two newcomers barely more than an unwelcoming, chilly glance before electing to instead ignore them while leading the way directly away from the Stronghold. Galahad found himself watching her, trying to fit the myths about her people onto this whirlwind of frigid apathy and blazing distrust that he followed.

It was rather depressing that his favorite person in the group was Fableon, not to mention a Fableon prince. He seemed to have a good sense of humor, and attempted to fill in the silence with friendly conversation, although he wondered if it was because the white-haired man was nervous, for he kept gripping the hilt of his dagger or moving his hand as though writing with a quill. The fact that Galahad didn’t have the immediate reaction of despising him was a miracle, given that he was directly related to the one god causing the majority of the continent’s problems. Instead, he found himself locked in a strange twisting of emotions in which he simultaneously wanted to befriend him, get as far away from him as possible, completely ignore him, and slice open his throat. It was as though something about the prince- what was his name, again? Veran? Var? Varis? -messed with his head and sense of reasoning, muddled the clarity which he was supposed to have honed to a perfect skill.

Arthur will be displeased in me, he thought, then blinked. Why had his brain said that? Why? Why did it insist on torturing him in such a fashion? Were all other’s thoughts as cruel as his own, as stubborn and unyielding? Did theirs refuse to let go of the past, even when it was so obviously dead and gone? Shut up, Galahad reprimanded himself. Is this all it takes to break your discipline? A few scatterings of months in a cell and a group of outsiders you’ve known for a fraction of a day? You’re right, Arthur WOULD be displeased with you, if he could see you now. Get it together, Galahad, or you’re not worthy to be called a Nexai.

Ahead of him, the Fableon prince stopped so suddenly Galahad, lost in thought, nearly ran into him. He had a cautious alertness on his face, his back slowly stiffening. “STOP,” he yelled into the silence, making the Enderlands knight flinch. The Sheith’ora turned, curiosity and hesitant hints of uncertainty peaking through. An uneasy, tense quiet hovered around them like a blanket, the kind of hush that demanded absolute motionless. The wind shook the trees above them, sending pine needles scattering around them like snow drifting in a gale, swirling by their feet. They stood there, still and soundless, as he slowly turned to face the way they had come. “Someone’s following us.” It was a whisper, but it was as loud as cannon blast in the eerie chill of the forest.

“Anderian?” the Godkiller’s tense voice asked from her position as she motioned for the easterner to give her a boost up the trunk of one of the low-hanging pines. Vaulting upwards, she hung from one of the branches for a moment, awaiting the blind prince’s answer.
Another pause, this time accompanied by a small frown of confusion. “I can’t tell exact people by the noises they make from a distance, Chaos- but it’s certainly a larger group. The rhythm against the ground is too constant too be a slow moving group and too slow to be a small crowd running. I think it’s safe to say it’s the Queen, or, at least, one of her search parties.” Chaos nodded, then pulled herself upwards onto the next branch, quickly scaling from one limb to the next like some morbid, violent squirrel. The Enderlands knight stood stiffly by the roots as though thoroughly uncomfortable, watching them ascend quickly. Even though he was facing away from Galahad, he could tell that he was nervous, in a way, and jumpy. Every few moments, he cast a glance in the direction they had claimed the group was approaching, and, when he did, there were veins of fear and adrenaline in his eyes, as though he was anxious of needing to fight with his own people.

A rainstorm of pine needles showered down around them as the dark shape of Chaos reached the upper branches, the tree swaying due to the thinness of the trunk. “I can see them,” she yelled down. “They’re entering the forest- it’s definitely a search party. I don’t think Anderian is with them, though. Hey, House Mistvale,” they called, twisting from their perch in the sharply covered branches, looking down specifically at the purple-eyed soldier, “D’you remember anything about summoning goddesses in a split second? Cause… speak now or get yelled at later, Farmer Boy.”

Ven snickered slightly from just behind Galahad, while ‘House Mistvale’ shot him a displeased look. At some point, the prince had made his way to the blond knight’s shoulder without him greatly noticing, something which surprised Galahad and made him ponder for a moment if he had underestimated his abilities. “No,” Centross was shouting back. “I don’t. You should get down- I don’t want to be yelling as much as we are, especially if they are now in this pine forest with us. Besides, if anyone were to have some knowledge of deity-teleporting, wouldn’t it be you?” Another shaking of the tree and a cloud of falling needles was all that answered him as the Godkiller’s thin form vanished into the dark green. After a long moment, a lithe shape leapt out of the tree, landing on the ground with a thump.

“So, are we leaving, or are y’all finally going to let me kill Anderian?” Chaos propped their hands on their hips, raising an eyebrow. “Because I’m totally fine with the second one, I just think that Centross here wouldn’t appreciate that, so if you guys don’t want there to be another battle, I really think we should go.” Venas nodded in agreement, a tight line of worry wrinkling across his brow as though the closer the search party got, the more it was specifically his fault.

Galahad sighed an agreement and stood up, bumping into Centross, who had moved to lead the party. There was an awkward moment of quiet tension as the two regarded each other. Sure, the Enderlands man had led them for most of the way, which did make sense. They were, after all, in his territory, but when it came to merely getting away from a fixed location… that took little knowledge of the terrain. Besides, there was no conceivable way that he was going to let himself be guided by a traitor of a soldier one moment more. Cold golden eyes met equally iron violet ones, a sort of mental stand-off happening between them. Ven cocked his head to the side, slightly, staring into space at the two, as though he could tell exactly what was happening without seeing it.

I’m not going to let him guide us, even if it means we don’t travel for a while. He’s impudent and stubborn, but I have Niul-Xien, the Iron-Will. He will move first, or we will not move at all. Better a battle than an unfaithful navigator, after all- in a battle, it is very easy to lose a soldier or two… It would be a shame if there were to be an accident.

There was a quiet grumble and an exasperated sigh before a forest-colored shape blocked Galahad’s vision, brushing past both of them to the front, interrupting his thoughts and scattering them like seeds. “Men,” Chaos muttered, rolling her eyes, unconsciously running a hand through her hair, which was nearly down to her shoulders. She made a small face at the length, a twitch of discomfort slithering through the apathetic façade, a crack in the wall, a chink in the armor, if you would. “I meant what I said, guys- let’s get moving.”

“I don’t believe that will be possible,” a rough, scratched voice said from nearby, the words like sandpaper in his ears. They turned, nearly as one, a thought which made him shiver with disgust at doing anything in sync with an Enderlands soldier, and instead found a small group of Enderlands soldiers. A brown-haired woman pushed her way to the front, a fitted black arrayment similar to that of the priests back at the shrines in Netherium covered her body, a small silver-edged cloak covering her shoulders. Heterochromatic eyes contrasted with the white streak of hair near them, one a lavender pale enough to be nearly pink, glinting as it caught the light in a way that seemed to reflect and refract it until the iris itself seemed to glow, and the other a deep purple the color of wine and blood-covered amethysts. “I do not require you to go anywhere but to the underworld.”

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Chaos was prepared to strangle people.

Specifically, the smug-faced priestess of Epros in front of her, the one who had an annoyingly self-satisfied smirk plastered onto her expression. They would very much like to cut if off of her, quite literally. “Good job, Raekael,” she said, addressing a tall, willowy woman with dark hair that was pulled back into a tight knot to match her sharp armor. The roughness of her tone obscured her words as she turned her attention back to Chaos. “I don’t believe we’ve formally met, Godkiller. Haley Eprosanath, I believe my last name would be in your tongue- Haley, Priestess of Epros. I like mine quite better than yours, don’t you think, slayer of my deity? Eprosidin? Is that what they call you?”

“Yeah- at least my name is known. I haven’t heard a peep about yours. What are you, the Queen’s lapdog? You fetch prisoners for her like a good dog?” She moved forward until she was just in front of the two knights, casting a glance at Centross, who had stopped having argument with Galahad with his eyeballs, and was now standing just to her left. “I assume that is what you’ve come to do, is it not, Ilelka’tan?”

Haley’s back straightened at the Elspire word, her eyes narrowing. “Sheith’ain vin keshin vish’or phoran lios suth nul’ana un’nali, Vinka Gi.” The gods will bring death swiftly upon your forsaken being, Fading One. They words cut into her like knives, making them flinch slightly. They were not normal phrases; they were spoken at ceremonies where a Sheith’ora was being banished. Fading One. A sign that Chaos was nothing more of a ghost of the past to the Godkillers, a mere spirit.

Only, she was not. She was all that was left of them. “You are not of my people. Do not think yourself high enough to speak those words, mortal, for you have no right. You have no claim to them. You have no reason to utter them. You may claim to be a priestess, but you are still a mortal, and a mortal you will always remain until your heart stops beating. Do not think that, only because you know the words, that you have any power to pronounce them over me. You are nothing more than a fleeting thought. I will live long after your death.”

“We will see about that,” she snarled, her face a scowling mask as she drew out an orb the size of her hand, letting the light whisper over it. Centross sucked in a breath. It was smooth as glass, the color of moon-lit oceans, a tumbling mess of teal and sea-glass and lime and cobalt and azure, a smooth crystalline ball of semi-translucent material that caught the light and twisted it into tiny glowing sparks in the middle. With a start, Chaos realized that it reminded her of the crystals imbedded in Perix’s armor, the ones with those same sparks captured in the center, only that one had been elongated and faceted like a diamond. “Recognize it, Godkiller?” Haley asked, running a hand over the surface. “An Ender Pearl. Beautiful, isn’t it? A shame it must be broken.” On the final word, she heaved the sphere down, smashing it to pieces against the stones.

It shattered like a pane of ice or glass, the captured flecks of light inside released into tiny floating stars that glowed like fireflies, hovering and pulsing. With every pulse, or maybe heartbeat, they expanded, glowing brighter, then faded only slightly, steadily growing larger and larger until they send a bright flash through the world. Chaos shielded her eyes with her hand, squinting through the brilliance, trying to make sense of the radiant figure in the middle of the light. After moment the light faded, and the luminous figure had turned solid.

They felt their eyes widen in recognition.

Tall as the stronghold she lived in, with skin and hair like smooth ebony, she towered over them like a divine embodiment of the night. A wine-colored tunic and dark pants gave the appearance of simplicity and normalcy, only they were edged with intricate silver embroidery in the shape of eyes and moons. Fastened around her neck with a long silver pendant of twisting snakes was a rich cloak of violet and red, like a blood-filled wave cresting around her. The only physical hint to her royalty, other than the way she stood and the aura of immortal power that poured forth from around her, was a simple crown carved out of what appeared to be a single chunk of obsidian, spikes like claws sticking up around her face and a single blue diamond suspended between her eyebrows.

Her eyes opened, pure, sparkling, cold emerald all the way through, looking much like the surface of the Ender Pearl, shot through only with a cat’s-eye-like slit of black which served as a pupil. “Well,” Anderian said, tapping her fingers against the sword sheathed at her side as the shockwave of surprise and the aura of the goddess moved. Those glimmering, dangerous, terrifying eyes met Chaos’s own. “You must be the Godkiller who’s been causing me so much trouble.”

Chapter Text

The kingdom of Fableon is not known for its expansive libraries.

Aethercadena, the great Kingdom of the North, had always been called the Kingdom of a Thousand Shelves, in a half-joking way, for it being a source for many of the books existing on the continent. It had been a place scholars and students dreamed of visiting, a place of wide, airy universities and large amphitheaters in which poets wept and writers dreamed and debaters argued. King Alerion, the god of Space, built observatories where his subjects and foreigners alike could stare at the stars, those same constellations that watched over all parts of the world, no matter the country. He said, once, that everyone lived under the same stars, and that made them the same people.

Unfortunately, few agreed with that gentle, wise god. Where Alerion saw ways for peace and an expanding of knowledge and a sharing of experiences, his siblings, his fellow Elder gods, saw ways to slaughter and conquer and destroy and dominate. They thought that all problems could be solved by a spraying of blood and a sharpening of weapons. I wondered, often, if that was the real reason his kingdom died. Many claim, perhaps rightly so, that the Sheith’ora, those strange, mysterious creatures, were the reason Aethercadena collapsed into the snow. Alerion was the headstone of that beautiful place, and when he fell, his kingdom fell with it, and gone were the graceful libraries and the amphitheaters.

My great-uncle was a good man- good god, rather. I find it shameful that he is gone. After his killing, Aethercadena suffered greatly. No one could step up to replace him, although many tried. Eventually, the buzzards circled in for the kill. All three countries tried to capture land from it while the refugees fled like deer from a hunter. We quickly found, however, that trying to live in a kingdom made of starlight and ice is not easy. We were simply not built for it in the same way the Aethercadena residents were. Many who ventured up there froze or starved or were devoured by the great eldritch beings that lived up there, for we did not know how to do anything with our legs buried in the snow with an avalanche barreling at us and no wood for a fire and our supplies gone. There were no cozy homes with roaring hearths and open arms waiting to welcome us inside. There were no native-born people ready to assist us and teach us.

And so, Aethercadena was relinquished to exist as a fallen empire of cold, frozen shadows, uninhabited, unclaimed. A shadow of the past. My great-aunt and great-uncles were unhappy to let it go, but even they realized that that land was harder to control than they had believed, let alone to make it beautiful and thriving. They did not understand the snow the way Alerion had. They could not speak its language or spend quiet nights staring at the stars. They cared not for the still, silent beauty that it contained. They only saw it as a place of resources, and then they saw it as a death trap.

And so, our Kingdom of a Thousand Shelves was lost, buried in endless snowdrifts and gone forever. With it went the knowledge we once possessed. The scholars tried and failed to remember. The poets tried and failed. The historians tried- and got closer than most, but they too failed. Days passed, and turned into weeks, and then into months, and then years, and then decades, and then nearly a century. Aethercadena became little more than a name in a children’s story, a figment of history that we could never reclaim because it had already been reclaimed, only by the cold stars and their blustery snowstorms.

Words fail me to describe my disappointment.

Thusly, there is no longer a place for people like me, for those who thirst for knowledge the way others thirst for water. We are dying out, a race of intellectuals who care about what has happened and what is happening, who believe that only the past can tell us about the future and that, hidden in those stars above, is the answer to everything, if only we can speak their language, if only we can reach out and touch them. We need to retain what we can, for if we do not, if this knowledge is lost for good, I fear the dark times ahead for this continent.

-Crown Prince Venas Kasuki Renax, Heir to the Fableon Throne

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“Well, you must be the Godkiller who’s been causing me so much trouble.” The words were rolled in power, strength of a god concentrated into divinely spoken utterances. They washed over Venas like a wave breaking over a dock, silencing the humming of the voice in his mind, threatening to bend his knees for him in a powerless bow, and yet they were not even directed towards him. He could see things, faintly, now, like distant lighthouses through the mist, hazy shapes outlined in the goddess’s aura. She herself glowed like a beacon, a rich, glowing color he did not have words for, as though she had been struck by lightning. Around him, he could see the dark shapes of what he assumed were Galahad and Centross, judging by where their voices had resounded from, and the more sharply-silhouetted form of Chaos standing near the Goddess-Queen herself. “And who do you have with you, small one? A blind man, a captured knight and… one of my own?” Anderian’s towering form stalked closer to him, a full head or two above his eyes, the radiance emitting from her aura outlining him further. A single shining hand reached out, tipping up his chin.

“‘One of my own’?” Chaos scoffed from behind the deity. “You see what I mean, Galahad, Centross? She treats her own people like they’re mere possessions, just more objects for her to own and collect and move as she wishes.” There was the sound of metal on leather, like a dagger being unsheathed from a metal-embossed hold. It came from either the Godkiller herself or the group of soldiers behind them, it was difficult to distinguish. “Next you’re going to talk about how you have the best intentions for this nation and all of that, right? What’s it called in the scrolls, a villain-speech or whatnot?”

“Monologue,” Ven supplied, his mouth moving before his brain had a chance to think about if it really wanted to speak and draw the attention of the Elder Enderlands goddess to him. But… the question had been about scrolls, something which Venas himself was also extremely passionate about and cared quite a lot concerning. How could he not have uttered information about such a thing?

The shape of Anderian crossed her arms- or, at least, that is what he assumed she was doing. It was rather hard to tell when she was simply a humanoid blob of light brighter than the average sun. On the plus side, Ven could see, more or less, his newest traveling companions outlined in the aura of the Queen, his first glimpse at each of them, thanks to his Great-Uncle’s careless curse centuries ago. “In reality, Sheith’ora, he’s a stray, a lost sheep I will return to the fold. Such a hope is a noble intention, is it not? I offer him a chance to return to his life again, to whatever he chooses to do.”

“If…” Chaos prompted, already anticipating a heavy cost in return. At some point during the conversation, the Enderlands soldiers behind them had begun to fan out around them, had begun to slowly move to encircle them. Ven shuffled his feet against the forest floor to get the Godkiller’s attention, waiting until the silhouetted shape of their head turned towards them before gesturing the slowly encroaching group with a flick of his hand. Surprise, hinted heavily with confusion and tainted with suspicion appeared in her posture, and it took him a moment to realize why. They know I’m blind, but they don’t know about the full extent of the curse, he thought. They don’t know about the finer aspects of it.

“If,” Anderian continued, drawing their attention back to the more pressing matter at hand. “If you all do something very small for me. I am willing to fully pardon all of you, let those of you who wish to leave to go free and those who wish to return to the Enderlands to do just that. I’m also willing to send a letter back with the Netherium knight here, offering my full support and allegiance to Queen Soul, should Fableon attack them. All you have to do, Godkiller, is just a small favor, a miniscule sacrifice for the rest of them all. It’s nothing, really, a very small thing. All that I want you to do is to let me kill you.”

A silence, as though Chaos was waiting for a punchline that was not coming. “Right. So. No?” they said, weakly, hesitantly, a try at something which was a mixture of amused and cautious, almost like she was half-expecting the deity to suddenly plunge a knife into her chest while holding a civilized conversation over afternoon tea or brunch. “I mean, you can’t be serious, right? You must be joking to actually believe I would agree to that.” Another pause. “…Right?”

“The choice is entirely yours to make, of course, Godkiller, but I think you’ll find that you want to take it. After all, you’ve caused these individuals a hefty sum of pain, you and your people. You tore this soldier of my land away from his work defending the country he loved. Instead, you brought him to slaughter the very leaders of that nation, the gods who have done so much good. Your people caused this Netherium knight’s capture as well, for they killed Netherum and threw his world into chaos. He did what he thought was best for his country in that moment- he wanted vengeance, and your people let him believe it was my nation that did it. He charged into a battle he could not win. If you had admitted that it was, in fact, you and your accursed group, he would not be here. In fact, if they had not even killed Netherum in the first place, he would be having the happiest time of his life. You are the last of your Sheith’ora. You carry the burdens of their guilt and shame. You are the root of this issue. And the prince, over here,” a glowing hand gesturing to Venas, who felt a small jolt pass through his body. “Ah, I know what he is. Prince of wraiths, the forgotten heir who was cast off by his great-uncle, the one who lurks behind book and who has more secrets than it seems. I understand him perhaps far better than any of you possibly could, for we share something in common, don’t we, young prince?”

And there it was. That tiny acknowledgement of what Ven had accomplished, of what he had long since hoped for. He had known it had worked- there had been obvious signs of that, between the appearance and the capture and the thrumming twin heartbeats in his head that led to another within the palace, but this, this was confirmation. It was a recognition from the eldest god living, the most ancient of them all, to the fact that Venas had done something, something perhaps ridiculously stupid, but also something few, if any, had ever done before. It made his heart leap and pound even faster, his whole body shake with something beyond fear or nervousness, something that there was no name for, a feeling as though he had touched one of Aethercadena’s stars and found it alive.

And he was sure they were all giving him a puzzled, confused, suspicious look, but he did not care. He could not care. He could barely breathe, actually, and he didn’t think that was because of the cold Enderlands air. To his blinded eyes, his vision caused only by the divine life in front of him, the world had gone fuzzy and faded, sound and sensation abating before his eyes. The colors fade and die out, replaced by still darkness. He feels his heart slow, his body forcibly relax, feels the tension release from his shoulders. For a long moment, he is comfortable and confused, and then a pair of vivid emerald eyes like shattered glass flash through his mind for a split second, and the darkness turns pale and milky.

He is back in that library, the last place he had ever been in the palace before his capture. His vision pulses in and out, but he can see better than he has ever been able to, finally able to perceive the ancient room around him. It is a maze of bookshelves that spiral upwards towards a vaulted ceiling where netherrack lanterns hang, never dimming and never fading. The weathered shelves are made of dark spruce, the tomes packed within in colors ranging from dusty dark blues to vibrant scarlets as fresh as blood. They circle out in curved rows and twisting corridors out from the space where he sits, the massive table too big to fit through the doors beneath his fingertips set alight with a solitary lantern. Outside, through the windows set into the ceiling, the glass as clear as frost, the night sparkles like black silk above, overshadowed with thick clouds.

His fingers tremble slightly as he reaches forwards, gripping a black crow’s feather tightly in his hands, the end already dark with ink like saltwater mixed with blood. The angled edge scrapes over the page as he writes, leaving behind a dark trail in the form of slanted, curled letters that begin to form his final entry into his journal of his findings and trials. It is as though some part of Ven recognizes that tonight it will work, that tonight his vision and dreams will come full circle and come to resolution, for his heart pounds in a way it has not for a long time as he opens the small dark chest on the table, his fingers flipping away the bronze latch and creaking it open.

Inside lies a cobalt cloth that wraps and covers the contents within, the fabric smooth as buttery sunbeams beneath his hands as he moves it aside, revealing the rows of bottles filled with dried herbs and capped with corks and wax, the thirty-some candles in shades of white, gray, black, and wine, the dark knife in its unadorned leather sheath, the smooth orbs of crystal and rock in tiny spheres like eyeballs, and the velvet-wrapped shape of the object he has spent years tracking down. One by one, each individual ingredient is set on the table, split to the sides leaving a circular space five-feet in diameter.

Clutching the quill tighter in his hand, he dips it into the inkpot to his left, letting the black liquid coat the edge of it before slicing it across the table again and again, leaving a pitch-colored line each time. Sharp cut across, another one down. Several more across. A smooth circle. A scattering of smaller lines. He stands back, inhaling, looking at what he has drawn. It is a symbol he had found in a thick grimoire recovered from the ruins of one of Aethercadena’s oldest libraries after Alerion’s death, one filled with words in a language no one knew nor could figure out. It resembles a skeleton, he realizes, as he stares down it. A t-shaped mark, with three more lines in diminishing sizes down the vertical line like ribs, followed by a circle to be the head at the top of the t. A few more lines, each considerably smaller to the rest, mark tiny curves and edges at the tips of the other shapes, giving the skeleton ends and beginnings. Around the edge of the space, he has scrawled runes, words he can never hope to pronounce or understand.

Slowly, he brings out the candles from the sprawling mess, setting them elaborately in various parts of the symbol, with the wine-colored one at the circle acting as the head. A few he carves with more runes with the ceremonial knife, some he slices symbols into, but most he leaves blank. With a smash, he breaks open the lantern lighting his work, bringing out the flickering candle within and setting it nearby. The bottles clink together as he uncaps them, filling the air with the smell of spices. Some are normal herbs found in every kitchen in the land, ones such as basil, thyme, sage. Others are flower petals from the furthest reaches of the continent, hyacinth, calendula, and hyssop. More still are the incenses, copal, amber, and frankincense, while others are rarer plants such as jasmine and mullein.

One by one, he cracks off the wax sealing and pours them together into a small stone bowl, pausing occasionally to double-check his notes or to recount measurements. When the last bottle is placed down and corked once more, the prince grinds them together until they are as mixed as tears in the ocean. The mixture is scattered around his symbol and candles, and then he removes the orbs of rock and crystal from the chest, placing them in something resembling both a circle and a cross. They seem to absorb the light around them, tiny balls of hewn night on his table. With hands shaking violently, now, he unwraps the final piece, placing it in the center of the candles and sign and runes and crystals.

It is a piece of amber as large as his head, translucent so that the lantern light far above shines through it as though honey-tinted glass, turning mere strikes of light into pure rays of sunlight and fire, magma and embers, cinders and curls of dancing flames. It should not make him fear, but he still cannot help himself from trembling violently, for it is not the amber itself, but what it holds. Marring the beautiful color of the amber is a single dark oblong circle of something stranger and darker than anything he has ever seen before, even the crystalline spheres. It looks like a hole in the universe, a puncture through the fabric of reality, a window into the void itself, something more powerful than anything but a god itself, for this is no common item nor rare commodity. It is unique, unlike anything else in the world.

It is a tear from the eye of a deity, a deity gone for years.

Venas picks up the lantern’s candle once more, eyes glued to the amber orb as he moves slowly, lighting one candle and then another in what seems to be in a pattern-less arrangement. He lights the last one, the one in the center, the candle the color of blood and grapes, and the world vanishes.

He was thrust back into his own body as though thrown, for he suspects that is exactly what has happened, as though his consciousness has been forcibly hurtled through time and space and memory. His vision was horrid once more, faded once again, no longer the fuzzy eyes that had still been more useful than these. He swayed, slightly, his sense of gravity and balance distorted and confused like a sailor tossed in a tsunami. Ven held his head in his hands, inhaling and exhaling, letting his lungs rise and fall in an undulating rhythm of ebb and flow while he regained his sense of self.

When his head rose, he could still see the beacon-like form of Anderian, eyes radiating power and might in a haze of copper-green the same shade as the ones having rippled through his mind. They were staring at him, drilling into his brain for a long moment before moving away to stare back at Chaos, who was now closer to the goddess, with Centross and Galahad standing nearby. The Enderlands soldiers had moved in even further, now ringing the group in a loop of four or five people thick. He could feel their watchful eyes upon him, but they were nothing more than a cautionary watch, a mere expectant gaze upon him. No one was aware. No one had been alerted to Ven’s travel through his own mind, no doubt caused by some searching whim of Anderian’s.

“…do it,” Chaos was saying, the expression on her face one of turbulency and caution, very different from the one of incredulous disbelief they had formerly worn. “You’d let them be happy? For once in your life, you would swear to actually willingly not be miserable?”

The goddess’s face tightened disapprovingly, an icy tone of staunch hatred pouring through her voice as she spoke. “Do not mock me, Godkiller, or I will not hesitate to retract my offer and kill you anyways. That’s what your kind do to mine, is it not? Pointlessly murdering us, one after the next. Speak your next words wisely, young one, for they may be your last.” The faint outline of what Venas assumed was Centross sidled closer to the Sheith’ora, placing one hand on their shoulder.

“Chaos.” His tone was stern and quiet, like creaking tree branches swaying in the wind. He said something else, a single word, something hardly more than a breath or a whisper and too quiet and indistinct for even Ven to hear. Chaos closed their eyes, barely moving except for the rise and fall of their shoulders as they inhaled and exhaled. Slowly, she opened their eyes, glancing once at Centross before turning to Anderian, and when she spoke, their voice was soft.

“I have hated you more than any of my people before me. You ask me to offer myself as a sacrifice for those who willingly came with me to kill the others. It is only because of ‘your’ knight, Centross, that you still live, for else I would’ve killed you when I had the chance. If these be my last words, I will be content with knowing that the last thing I said was the truth. Can you claim the same, Goddess of the Mind?” There was moment of tension-filled silence, a moment where immortal and Godkiller alike stood in a compound of stubborn, mutinous mutual hatred. Anderian raised one hand without moving her eyes from Chaos, not as though to slap them, but in a sign to Haley, who turned and took what appeared to be a coarse brown bag filled with lumpy shapes and splattered with dark stains. The priestess thrust away the bag towards Ven’s group, where the top opened and lopsided, filthy, soiled objects tumbled out towards his feet.

Galahad made a strangled noise nearby. They were severed heads, perhaps ten or fifteen, some with matted locks that might’ve been blond to Ven’s hazy eyes, some with tangled messes of possibly brown, some with hacked-away clots of black. Their eyes stared towards the sky, a myriad of expressions ranging from puzzled to horrified to terrified to startled, each one outlined in a fuzzy aura of light emitting from Anderian. Chaos had gone still, so still he wondered if she was frozen in perturbed silence, unable to form words to describe that which was before them, that which was no doubt a grizzly sight to those with eyes to see.

“Your other escapees,” the goddess commented, her head turning slowly as if to survey the decapitated faces. “At least, one party of them that this group found along the way to locate you. As of now, nearly all of your so-called freed prisoners are killed. None of my hunters took captives. I offer you one last time, Godkiller. Your life for those who accompany you now, or else all will die regardless.”

Something began to buzz again in the back of Venas’s mind, the same thrumming energy that had vanished since the appearance of Anderian, slowly recalling its way to the surface. Perhaps it was merely his imagination, a figment of illusion and delusion, but to his anxious mind, it seemed as though the pulse was hinged with a feeling of sadistic pleasure, as though it was terribly overjoyed with the slaughter of the former captives. Slowly, the figure of Chaos, a silhouette in vibrant color against the darkened misty backdrop that was his world, moved her head back to face the deity once more. Some darker intuition whispered intrusive thoughts about how it would be the last time she would look upon that Elder lady, oldest of the gods.

“Very well,” they said, and there was a cry of dissent-filled protest from Centross as he tried to move forwards, only to be shaken off and ignored by Chao once more. “Kill me, goddess, and free Centross, Galahad, and Venas. You have sworn.”

“Chaos-” Centross darted inbetween Anderian and the Sheith’ora, placing both hands on her shoulders and looking her in the eye. “Don’t. You don’t get to do this for us. It’s our choice, not yours. Not now, not ever. You don’t get to decide our futures yourself. If we die, we die, but you are not the one that gets to make that choice for us. Do you understand, Cha?” He shook her shoulders slightly and she took a step back to balance herself, kicking one of the heads in the process.

A blink. “Centross… I have to. You know I owe you, House Mistvale. You don’t get to make this choice either. It’s my life I’m giving up, not yours. I’m saving your sorry self if it’s the last thing I do.” She said more things, only Ven’s attention strayed, focusing only on the unamused, unimpressed figure of Anderian. He wasn’t sure why. It was as though his brain would not permit him anything else except to keep a watch upon her, to set a cautious blind eye towards her. Unnaturally tall and glowing as brightly as the average supernova, every aspect about her screamed ‘unnatural’ and ‘not mortal’, a living paradox of an unkillable thing being threatened with death. Standing nearby her was like trying to touch a black hole, being tugged and pushed around while trying to stay still.

Something changed in the glowing aura of the goddess, something fluctuating and elongating and morphing and growing, something becoming terribly off. His eyes float to where her hand hung at her side, to where thin spirals of luminescence curl off of her fingers, wisps of light that slowly grew and thickened, becoming less ethereal and more corporeal by the moment like crystalizing syrup. They formed long talon-like claws, wickedly sharp and thin as needles. For a long moment, Ven opened his mouth to try and speak words in warning, only no sound emanated from his throat as though willed by Anderian to simple stop speaking. He felt as though stuck, held in place and forced to merely observe as she raised claws like knives and swept them in an arc towards Centross’s back.

There was a blur, a ripple through the universe as the Enderland’s knight was shoved out of the way and the talons caught against dark weapons that resisted the glow of the aura. Centross staggered back, crashing into Galahad, who shoved him away with a disgusted shiver and drew his sword at the army encircling them, who had, in turn, unsheathed their own weapons and prepared to engage in battle, only to be stopped by Haley lifting one fist in the air. Anderian and Chaos paid no attention, caught in a bizarre sort of stand-off, one that can only be achieved when one combatant was nearly three feet taller than the other and the chosen weapon divine saber-like claws. The Sheith’ora had one dagger pressed against Anderian’s hands, a curious battle of shadowed knives and brilliant talons to his aura-given sight. As he watched, she forced back the goddess’s hands a little further and dropped to the ground, still keeping the one hand raised to fend off the deity while planting the other firmly against the ground and kicking out with her legs to sweep her off balance.

Anderian staggered, her arms moving away from the knife before she recovered and lashed out at Chaos’s chest, who cried out in pain as they jerked away, long cuts visible through the tears on their shirt. Again, the queen lashed forwards, this time catching her on the arm. A dazed Godkiller stumbled backwards, pain filling her movements, the slashes on her body oozing dark liquid like poison as Anderian approached once more, reaching down with one hand to grip the sides of Chaos’s face.

“Weak. And I don’t just mean your physical attacks… your mind is rather flimsy, too. I though Sheith’ora were supposed to have strong mental barriers, but it appears something shattered yours quite recently. What a shame.” The goddess’s aura dimmed at the same moment Chaos’s body began to glow with the same shade of sea-green as her power slammed into their limp body like a ragdoll. “Haley,” the deity mused, not turning around but rather keeping her attention pinned on the Sheith’ora. “Kill the others, but let this one live for now, my lieutenant. I’ve never had a Godkiller plaything before. It would be very interesting to see what drives her insane first, whether it’s the pain or the realization that her own mind is slowly destroying her.”

Centross jerked to attention, backing up slowly until he was nearly touching Galahad. The two stood there, faintly outlined like ghosts now that Anderian’s aura had diminished to affect Chaos, brandishing their swords threateningly towards Haley as she moved forwards. Ven felt a force push him squarely in the middle of his back and the world went spinny and sideways as it shoved him forwards and onto the ground as one of the soldiers planted his foot firmly on top of his shoulders. “Not that one,” Anderian’s voice came from somewhere above as Venas thrashed, addressing the knight who had knocked him over. “That one lives as well. I was not lying when I said he had secrets.”

And oh, how was he to tell if the explosion of nerves in his stomach was from thrill of recognition or the terror of not knowing what was going to happen or the exhilarated feeling of falling as he realized that he had gone from being under his great-uncle’s control to a foreign power’s influence. Or perhaps it was his body’s way of telling him that he would be dying shortly, most likely in a painful way at the hands of said foreign power- that is, if what he had done would let him die. The thrumming which had vanished when Anderian had appeared was swiftly coming back in pulsing waves now that the goddess’s aura had diminished. The twin heartbeat had returned as well, louder and stronger than he had ever heard it, and he knew why. He knew who it was leading to and it took everything in his willpower not to constantly glance her way from his place in the pine needles.

Chaos let out a choked groan of pain, following by the sounds of a struggle. Ven rallied his strength and pushed his head up enough to catch a glimpse of the Godkiller, now looking like an exploding star and completely under the effect of Anderian, thrashing about in pain. As his head fell back to the earth, he caught yet another glimpsing flash of Centross slamming the hilt of his sword into an Enderlands’ soldier’s head and spinning to kick another in the stomach while Galahad grappled with the one Haley had called ‘Raekael’. The tip of the boot dug into Venas’s back once more and he fell still, closing his eyes and waiting. For what, he did not know. Something to kill him, perhaps, or something to possess him, or someone to free him. Or perhaps just to wait for Anderian to just finish killing the others.

Only there was no such thing. Instead, there was scuffling for several moments, followed by a sudden clang of the flat of a blade against a skull. The soldier pinning down Ven flinched, just enough for him to knock him off balance and stagger to his feet, disbelief dropping his jaw. Anderian was clutching her head while Centross stood unchallenged for a minute nearby before being pulled back into the battle. Chaos’s figure stopped glowing as she slowly pulled herself to her feet, stumbling over to Anderian, one knife in her hand and the other buried in a tree trunk nearby. They looked weary, breathing heavy and chest heaving. Slowly, the goddess lifted her head, obviously in pain, but flexed her fingers and slashed at the Godkiller once more.

They dodged, instead grabbing Anderian’s other arm and holding on tight as a guttural scream ripped through their throat. Light rippled between the two, blasting both backwards and flashing through the forest. For a single heartbeat, Ven could see clearly the forest and the battle and the combatants in pure, crisp color, not the hazy neon lights against the misty soup that he usually perceived. It was enough to see the goddess of the mind’s form slumped limply on the ground, lifeless and unmoving as the Sheith’ora slowly got up and stood over her corpse, staring downwards at it.

Anderian was dead, and Chaos had killed her.

Chapter Text

Something is about to happen.

She knew it without knowing, understood it without understanding, believed it without belief. It reverberated through her bones and her soul, filled her being with unconscious comprehension, the unspoken, unthought, unacknowledged truth a quiet spill of ink through her veins. It is as though Vorago himself has reached up to touch her head to fill it with this realization, up from the depths a pale hand of wisdom and fact. She cannot help but wonder, cannot help but host the idea within her mind that this, this unnatural feeling which awashes her spirit like floodwater, that it might be the purpose she has sought.

And yet, part of her angers. Part of her rumbles like distant thunder, a vague hurricane of hatred and despising that storms distantly in her, like a tempest out at sea to a tired fisherman on the land. Part of her does not want this, does not desire to have yet another companionship be thrust upon her, for she knows that it will only be ripped from her once more. Part of her hates herself for longing for friendship, part of her wants to only be left alone because the silence surely cannot hurt more than laughter.

Laughter stings like ice. It was nothing more than fleeting illusion of happiness in a world of guilt and pain, a mere glint of hope in the folds of the desolate world. She knows just how much agony it is to laugh, how the euphoria masks a poison which sinks into vein and heart and poisons flesh and blood. It burns and ravages like a roaring wildfire, scorching and destroying and laying carnage and waste to a world of green and growing. Laughter hisses with venom beneath the mirth, the smile nothing more than a mask to disguise the pain.

She is liquid once more, letting her consciousness spread throughout the vast river she inhabits and patrons, her vessel of flowing rapids and quiet trickles. It is the only home she has ever known, other than the home who was not a place but a friend, a person, a sister. The home that loved her just as much when she was angry as when she was peaceful, the one that loved her at all times of the star-cycle, from the frigid waters to the heat-filled days. The home that was destroyed so that the Solids upstream might live.

She has watched them for ages. Part of her understands it cannot have been that long, but it still feels like eons when she observes the village full of people, the ‘Solids’, as she calls them, be happy and laugh and form friendships with one another, all while she still feels the scars of those things buried deep and burning on her heart. Sun after sun after sun, she watches them come and go and expand and live and thrive and grow like plants in the rain, watches them play and dance and ‘love’. She has never known the ‘love’ she hears them speak of, the one which brings a closer bond between individuals. She hates it. All of it, every moment, every second, every heartbeat, she despises it all because the only thing it does is to serve as a reminder that they get to have that life because she lost EVERYTHING. Her whole world, just so they could have their feeling lives.

And she lets her mind wander through the rippling clear waters, those cool waters that will soon deepen and freeze as the days wane. Minnows dance in her wake, responding to the sensation of the spirit in whose vessel they reside to pass by them. Her spirit skims stones and pebbles worn smooth by the current, flicks water into the air by the rapids, quickening until it is all nothing more than a blur the shade of a sapphire to her psyche, a streak of sky. She moves faster and faster, spreading out until her entire being has almost covered the entire river, onwards and onwards, moving further and further until she feels the entire body of water come alive, responding to her possession of it, bending to her will, and she rises up and experiences what it must be like to be a Primordial, and-

And the blast breaks her consciousness, shakes her all the way down to the roots of the river grass. The entire creek heaves in one fluid motion, responding to something only a spirit can feel, something the mortals cannot. The fish grow agitated, the silt is stirred and the rocks are pulse upwards, floating quickly back down to settle amid each other in a turbulent mixture of dirts and stormclouds and decaying leaves, tumbling over each other like grains of sand in the tide. She is tossed into a singular form once more, quickly letting herself reform to a solid in an attempt to stop her spinning mind that churns like a hurricane. Watery eyes blink in annoyance more than surprise- three times. Two close together the sun-cycle before, the latest right then.

She knows what they mean. She cannot help but feel them. Once, there were many spirits such as her, spirits of tree and flower and river and stream. They covered the earth like the vessels they inhabited, thick as blades of grass and filling the world with their souls. She had been there, at the beginning. She could remember, distantly, as though from afar, hearing their songs. They had never ventured close to her river, however- the valley in which the majority of it was nestled was nothing more than a grassy crevice. No flora or stately oaks grew there, and the spirits of the mountains had more important things to do than talk to a lonely river. She had been forced to exist as she was with no outside love or affection.

Many star-cycles had passed, and then the tremors started. Subtle ripples in the world, echoes through the void as the Ish’kalan slipped out of existence like pebbles out of a stream, the faintest of lingering pulses following their departure. The Solids did not feel them, those who were not of the immortal or the immutable. One by one, they faded out and away, vanishing like morning fog into the fabric of the void. They simply… faded. Their energy returned to the void of all things, the culmination of matter and consciousness. They left behind their vessels, their ferns and their forests and their lakes and their clouds. Nature spirits, celestial spirits, even deities as the Sheith’ora Husked them. Those ripples were bigger, more dramatic. They flung her around, but none were worse than the Elder gods being Husked- Alerion and Netherum, and now this one.

One by one, the spirits vanished. The disappearing ripples began few and far apart, an occasional one here or there. Slowly, sun-cycle by sun-cycle and moon-cycle by moon-cycle, they picked up, becoming faster and more common. They simply slipped out of existence so quickly that, at times, it was nearly continuous ripples. Not strong enough to be too overwhelming, but still highly annoying. They were like waves, constantly slamming into the world- until they began to fade out. Become less frequent. More space and time between each one, until they stopped more or else altogether. The spirits of the universe, the beings given life by drops of the essence of Epros and Kinaxus clinging to their creations, were vanishing from existence, for they had no reason to live. They simply had no cause to BE. All that was left were the deity ripples, the splashes caused by the Godkillers. Even they had become spread out, occasional and uncommon.

Until a scattering of moon-cycles ago when there had been the biggest tremor yet, one that had shaken her so hard she had blacked out for gods-knew how long. And then, last sun-cycle, there had been two consecutive ripples, one after the other. Not quite as strong as the Elder gods or whatnot, but the minor deities still caused quite the murmur through the void. And then, just now, that one. An Elder. Fable or Anderian, she knows not which. Something was happening, something was changing. Things were moving, things which were supposed to be unwavering and inflexible. Things which were not meant to be touched were being shaped and molded.

Slowly, she pulls her solid form out of the water, letting herself feel the firmness of the ground beneath her in an attempt to center herself and to focus, to let her mist-woven spirit gather itself and to return to its concentrated existence in the river. She feels the emerald-sheened spears of grass beneath her fingers, rubs a thoughtful pad of a thumb over them, thimbles a nail over the tops and watches it bend and waver.

It is coming, finally- a purpose, a reason, some sort of sign as to why she still lives while hundreds of millions of other Ish’kalan and Vin’thaena do not. It is a pulse and a heartbeat, a thought and a feeling, an acceptance and a disbelief, a rational explanation and an irrational refusal. It is and it was and it is coming, ringing the sun and circling the moon and orbiting the stars, fringing the clouds and tinting the ice and the edging every leaf on the aspens and the oaks and every needle on the pines.

A reason.

Aecieana smiles, despite herself.

--------------------------------

There was no reason, there was no rhyme, there was no rhythm or rationality. No elucidation as to why Chaos Eprosidin felt like this. Or was it Perixidin? Or perhaps Haeihidin? Or even Anderidin if she truly was- is -dead. Was she lifeless? Was this limp goddess carved from ebony and ink gone from the world permanently, or was she only unconscious? Her body had not yet begun to disintegrate into ash or glowstone dust or whatever other powder, as the other deities would have done. Although… how long had it been since she had Husked that fallen star? Had it been mere heartbeats, or a thousand eternities? Had it been a smattering of seconds, or had she spend many a century frozen here at the side of this figurehead of the Enderlands?

What was she? Who- who was she? Was she a Godkiller? Or a human? Or a spirit? Or a deity herself? Was she a killer? Or a hero? Or a murderer? Or a soldier? Or a pawn? This, this was no Trace- this was shock. It was horror. It was awe. It was self-doubt and self-confidence. It was as tumultuous as the void and conflicted as the continent itself.

She can remember that torture by Anderian, the blistering pain along her chest and arm from her immortal attacks, as well as the splitting, shattering, breaking and fusing agony in her head as the goddess of the mind lived up to her names. Glass Eye they had called her. She Who Walks the Moon. Lady of the Spun Raven, for her more benign, benevolent abilities. This had not been those compassionate, sympathetic power. It had been a needle through the temple, an arrow through the neck. A pure bolt of wrath and hatred and loathing and abhorrence focused onto a single target.

Carnage had taught that a Sheith’ora’s mind was impenetrable- they remembered that. That laced her brain like poisonous mist, cycling through her mind in thick clouds of effervescent bubbles that popped and snapped with anxious, paranoid worries. Wheedling ideas that maybe he had been wrong, that perhaps their beloved Per’anak had been horridly misled, that it was not true. But then… there were the words Anderian had whispered above them as if from a great distance over a yawning cavern of an abyss.

‘Weak. And I don’t just mean your physical attacks… your mind is rather flimsy, too. I though Sheith’ora were supposed to have strong mental barriers, but it appears something shattered yours quite recently.’ Poisoned barbs, perhaps, but all things had truth beneath the heaping lies, some more than others. There had been the Other consciousness, as they were beginning to think of it, the thing in her mind that had assisted her in locating Perix and Haeihaei at the cost of ‘breaking through’ as it had called it. Sending cracks through her mind, weaknesses in the seams.

Something told Chaos that that Ilelka’tan in their head was the reason for Anderian’s ability to worm through and antagonize their thoughts, something beyond an idea or a thought. An intuition-swirling thing.

Something touched her, physically, this time, not mentally. It was a shaking feeling along her shoulders, not quite a shiver, far too solid and corporeal for that. Nay, and it was too gentle to be another mental attack from the deity at her feet. It focused on the top of her torso, the muscles and bones where their arms and their neck and her spine joined together, where they met beneath skin and green cloak and pale emerald-tinted shirt and forest-shaded vest and pine-scented air. A prod of sorts, one to rouse both physically and mentally, a nudge to wake the dreamer and stir those passed on. It cut through the serene confusion of the silence, sliced through the peaceful oblivion to pull Chaos back into a world that shared their name.

For chaos incarnate it was, in the physical. For one long moment, it was akin to watching a silent argument take place- a soldier screaming at another, a rowdy crowd jostling together, a shaking movement, only the sound was missing- delayed. All at once, it returned in a cacophonic wave that jolted her, a sharp contrast from the disassociation and the quiet. Voices raised in cries emerged from the shrouded silence, loud and puzzling speaking words which did not register as anything more than jumbled noise for a heartbeat.

All around her was a yelling mob ringing a smaller group- a white-haired man blinking into space, his eyes blank and his face contorted in horrified bewilderment as he pushed himself to his feet and narrowly missed a sword to the head from an unnaturally tall half-human with dark skin and glowing purple eyes that hissed and sparked. A man in dark armor too big for him and his faded orange robes brandishing his sword at a brunette with mismatched eyes and an expression of pure hopeless rage, his armor swinging off of his arms as it loosely hung by leather straps. A brown-haired knight grasping her by the shoulders, the sun glinting sharply off of his dark chestplate and into her eyes in flashing lances of light as he shouted words into the pandemonium, a sword lying discarded at his feet. On the ground, just off to the right, an impossibly tall woman lay sprawled, her skin black as night and wisps of purple energy still curling around her like mourning ghosts, violet blood trickling from her lips.

In the same way their brain had required a moment to register the sounds around it, knowledge and understanding followed suit. She doubled over, gasping for air like a drowning child, clutching her head as comprehension and perception washed over her in a tsunami of leaden thoughts. Fears like lavender whispers shrouding all else. Anxieties like cobalt knives stabbing into their mind. Guilt in shades of sickly greens. Anger in flickers of scarlet and vermilion around the edges like curtains of fire.

The knight who had been shaking her helped lower them to the ground, where they dug their fingers into the bed of pine needles and struggled to make sense of every piece of information in the overload their mind was receiving. One hand caught the edge of a soft piece of fabric, one the color of claret and burgundy. It was Anderian’s cloak, now turned a shroud for her corpse. The material had twisted around some during the fight, pine needles caught to the edges and a few slight tatters around the brink, but the brown-haired man still unfastened the clasp of silver snakes and removed it from the goddess’s body. Red imprints were left behind on her neck from where it twisted around her shoulders during the fight, tiny marks like scales from the snakes. With a flicker of sudden surprise, Chaos realized that the twist of Anderian’s neck was not natural, that their neck had snapped during their fall.

So that is why I was able to Husk them… I remember thinking ‘it is strange that I was able to Husk them without inflicting a mortal wound’, but they already had one. She broke her neck when she fell. There was a distant echo of a sound, one that had, at the time, been overlaid by pain and the yelling of the various people around them, a sound faint but still audible, one of bones snapping like frost-covered grass and the breaking of spines like icicles.

“-going to kill you! She had no right- no right!” Voices were raised at the far end of the tiny encircling of soldiers, coming from the woman with the heterochromatic eyes and Galahad, the blond one, who shouted back, “She was going to get killed if she didn’t!” only, Haley was not listening, instead twisting out of their locked eye contact and dashing towards the fallen body of the goddess. She stumbled over the maroon colored cloak, caught perhaps unconsciously by Centross, who gripped her wrist and tried to haul her away.
“No!” The brown-haired woman, Haley, cried, punching Centross in the face, who crumpled to the ground, and tugging free, dashing over to Anderian’s slumped corpse. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no! You cannot die- I won’t let you!” Chaos simply stood there, watching, disbelief crossing her face as she realized that this person, this free human being, who had worked closely with Anderian, had seen her at her worst, all of her flaws and her issues and her crimes, was mourning her. “We need you, my Queen,” she whispered. There was a heartbeat of silence as the anger of soldiers, shell-shocked and surprised, drained away for a momentas they bowed their heads and watched in reverent grief. When Haley spoke once more, her voice was all wrong, low and unlike her own, otherworldly, almost, the same doubled voice Chaos had heard back in the Chorusan stronghold. “You’re not done yet.”

Chaos watched in horror as the color bled out of Haley’s hair swiftly, leaving it white as ice and sharp as threads of diamonds, translucent in a way different from Perix’s hair. Now, they were sharp and cruelly faceted like glass, brutally serrated at the ends. Her eyes turned a blank black, her purple irises that all natural-born residents of the Enderlands possessed, although heterochromatic, changing to the colors of ash and charcoal. Her tears spilled over like liquid shadows, bleeding thick, dark lines down her face in painted streaks of soot and tar. Sharp spikes erupted from behind her ears, curling slightly like fins, the same color as her eyes, a sudden contrast with her deathly pale skin. Paired with her dark court attire, Haley, or, once-Haley looked like an angel of death. …or… an angel of life.

“Achrien,” the Sheith’ora whispered, disbelief edging their voice. Even through the haze of shock, they could register the fact that this

The deity, possessing Haley fully now, drew one of the ceremonial knives from their sheath, the blade following the curve of a waning crescent moon, and began chanting in an ancient language, mumbling to themself. A hazy white glow was beginning to spread around their hands and the knife, traveling up their body and growing until it encircled Achrien like an aura. Thin balls of light formed at their fingertips, growing thicker and brighter as the aura strengthened. “What are they doing?” Galahad whispered beside Chaos, having moved over to stand next to them at some unknown moment, staring in horrified awe while tears prickled at their eyes for some unknown reason.

Slowly, like twilight falling, Chaos closed their eyes, remembering the legends they had heard about Achrien and their twin Aphrien, how they became gods on the brink of death and the way their lives were intertwined, one heartbeat for two beings. She recalled the stories they had been told as a child, ones about Achrien reviving heroes so they might be gods. “They’re going to bring Anderian back from the dead.”

“Achrien, no!” a voice yelled, and out from the crowd charged Ven, white hair flying in a strange parody of the deity’s own, eyes strangely lucid and perceiving as they stumbled towards the collapsed Anderian and Achrien. They had looked like that during the battle as well, as though he could see the soldiers around them and how his head at moved to follow their battle. “You can’t do this!” He yelled, shoving the god and its host’s hands backwards, away from the slumped corpse of the queen. The white glow spread to Venas’s hands, but he didn’t seem to notice, focused entirely on this immortal who had gone missing years ago.

“What do you think you’re doing, mortal?” Achrien hissed, flexing their fingers like talons, a forked tongue whisking in and out against pointed teeth the color of sun-bleached bones as their voice rasped like iron on stone. “I’m a god, small one, a god of life. I watch all beings from the moment they are first conceived to their last breath. I decide who is brought to life, who is given breath, who is allowed to see and speak. You, you are a mortal human prince. I think you need to remember your place, small one. You are nothing more than another creature which I designed and brought into this world, nothing more than another speck of a star in the sky.” Ven’s milky white eyes fixed firmly on Achrien’s own black ones, snow and night, void and moon, smoke and wax, shadow and brilliance.

The whole air gave a sort of shift as Ven blinked slowly. When he spoke, his own voice was soft and quiet, but it carried the same dualed tone as Haley’s, the same reverberation that echoed throughout reality and void. “You mean you don’t remember me, brother?” Achrien’s eyes widened, the white aura around them faded, receding like water down a drain and spiraling away into invisible oblivion. Their eyes darkened back to the normal twin purples, their hair returning to Haley’s amber-brown like beaten sheets of bronze and copper. For a long moment, Haley sat there, staring at Venas, who’s eyes had returned to staring blankly, no longer fixed on anything, no longer the unnaturally focused expression he had

“What did you do?” she whispered, and her voice was her own again, hushed like flower petals and gratingly rough as sandpaper. Her hands slipped out of Ven’s own, trembling and shaking as she dragged one shakily down her face. “No… no… I thought… if I had known…”

“Prince Venas?” Centross said groggily from the ground. “What was that? It… Ow…” He winced, pushing himself to his feet, swaying and staggering and gently putting one hand to his cheek. He cast a spare glancing look at Haley, who was still puddled on the ground, staring in disbelieving shock. “Priestess lady hits hard.”

The prince frowned, his entire posture curling inwards with shyness and nervousness and yet he radiated a definite ‘we are not discussing this’ vibe. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.” Chaos moved to nod and the world swayed around her with the movement as though clouds had been injected into her head. “Chaos?” Worry. Why could she feel his worry? And not only that- relief. Fear. Anxiety, exhilaration, joyous disbelief, and underlying bands of… anger. Why? Why were these tangible to her? Why could she clearly sift through them? Why could they overpower her own emotions, make her experience the emotions as clear as her own?

“It’s the Trace. And about time, too.” Haley. Anger. Shock. Surprise. Fear. Disbelief. Distraction. Feeling distanced. Hatred. Self-loathing. Grief, overpowering all else. A strong sense of loss. Movement, blurred and dark, walked across her vision as the Host of Achrien stood and marched closer to the Godkiller, the proximity to the priestess heightening the empathy to a new height. “Tell me, Chaos Eprosidin, are you feeling our emotions? Hearing our thoughts, yet? I hope you choke on my abhorrence of you.” Saying as such, she gripped Chaos’s wrist, and the world vanished.

There was nothing but noise and emotion. Thoughts poured in through the world, snippets of ideas and worries from Galahad and Haley and Centross and Ven and the hundreds of soldiers around them, words stabbing through her mind in fractured shards of glass. -choke on a- -Aphrien an- -wrong- -gone what will we d- -can’t- -sword them in the gu- -can I remember the li- -days without- -need- -General Haley called her a Godkiller- -Anderian is gone al- -what will we do- -I failed- -will Feng forg- -dro- -als- -that stupid b- -we’re gonna d- -they can’t save us- -pro- -eral Haley can fix thi- -I didn’t know they were a go- -Achrie- -gone- -dead- -r said we- -ort tim-

It was pain. Pure agony in the form of the common language. A swamp of emotions pulling on her, tugging her every which way, dragging them down into oblivion and shadow. They were not Chaos Eprosidin, or Chaos Haeihidin, or Chaos Perixidin, or Anderidin. They were not a person, or a Godkiller, or a human, or a god. They were merely a vessel of pain and hope and despair and hot and cold and love and apathy and emotion and thought and color and sound and everything which was not supposed to be able to coexist and yet was a rolling soup of paradox and contradiction.

Something cold, like black ice, snakes its way through her being, winding fanged spears of darkness through her like swords. It hurts, and yet it may as well be a well of comfort compared to the unrestricted torment they are experiencing. It coats their bones in darkness until they are like her Netherite knives- ossified iron hewn from pitch and expanse. It cracks and shatters things within her as though they are glass, and they almost laughed, for it was a funny sort of pain, the type where it hurt so much your brain completely stopped feeling it to save itself, a self-sacrificial pain that pierced your soul like paper with so many holes until the paper was too torn and tattered to where it wouldn’t even hold the weight of the knife. Ink seeps from among those cracks, spilling outwards and pulled forward until it feels as though it is mantled like cream upon their skin, hissing and frigid.

Something snaps within, and the world becomes very small, very still, and very, very distant. The noises drop away into silence, and it is blissful and quiet and as serene as a new moon at midnight, something dark and camouflaged against a backdrop of black velvet and onyx. They get the feeling they are falling through an abyss, small enough to fit between the atoms of shadow that fill the world, and as they fall through those cracks in the world, the universe shrinks into a tiny glimmering dot in the sea of soothing, tranquil ghosts.

They slip through the crevices in the flooring of the world, and the shimmer of light winks out.

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Water ripples around their head, chilled with the swift approach of Frosthaven. Wind blows tall strands of grass across their face, tickling them with the tasseled ends and sending the tiniest of seeds across their skin. The gurgling of a brook can be heard nearby, although it sounds as though echoing off of stone sentinels of mountains that stand guard. The world sways and shakes and wobbles, but they are aware, and they are alive.

It is a grassy valley they lie in, a sprawling one which spans between the green slopes which rise steeply and give way to peaked stone mounts. All around them is rustling, whispering grass which laughs and murmurs and gossips about this strange creature who does not belong in this wild place. She forces her eyes open, blinking against the startling brightness of sun which shines distant and cold in an iron-gray sky. Their head lies in the cold waters of a river which meanders and runs its wide way across the valley and distantly to the south beyond, the current dragging their brown hair along. Pebbles line the river, dig into their arms and shoulders with their rounded edges and poke into their neck. The occasional scraggly dead tree appears, its leafless branches stretching like claws over the water.

Something feels familiar about this place, a sense of duplication and repeating events touching Chaos’s soul. It is as though they have seen this place before, or something hauntingly similar, but they cannot place it through the nausea and clouded confusion which swaths their head. With drawn out, careful movements, she rolls over, the water trailing off of her soaked hair and beading down their back. Sickness rocks their stomach and a headache pounds their head, intense as thunder and heaving like ocean waves. She clutches her stomach as she hangs her head over the bank, starring at their reflection in the water.

The person who looks back cannot be them, for it looks too different and yet too similar simultaneously. Once short hair cut neatly is now a mop of messy, fluffed hair which curls slightly at the edges from repeated air-drying and drenching. Tired eyes stare back, brown to their core and yet so different from the bright eyes they once had. These are old, ancient as time and burdened with dark shadows from experiences and travels. Pain lines are etched into their face like marks chiseled from marble, cold and stony face marked with creases from grimaces and screams. Their pointed ears poke out from their fluff of hair, tiny points of skin amid the sea of mahogany. There are scars and wounds, too- marks from their battle with the Primordial Epros, a fading bruise from the time they hit their head on a branch traveling with Centross, fresher cuts from their flight from the palace and scratches on their arm and chest that weep black droplets from Anderian’s claws, stinging like fire and freezing like ice.

She smacks the surface of the water, than immediately grimaces and clutches her stomach as a fresh wave of nausea swamps them. “If you’re going to be sick, I’d prefer you didn’t dirty my water.” An iron-cold voice spoke from behind them, the tone unyielding and firm. Chaos froze, staring into the surface of the water where a second face has appeared. With drawn out movements, they turn over and slowly push themself to their feet, turning to meet the newcomer. “I’ve had enough of that from the villagers.”

It was a tall woman, her unsettling, strange gaze levied on the disoriented Godkiller. Her hair was a shimmering sheet of clear blue water, flowing to the middle of her back before vanishing suddenly, the liquid forming curls and defied gravity in a perfect replica of hair, a watery visage. Her eyes, or, rather, where her eyes should be, were rippling orbs of water, immaterial and yet solid enough to where the inside of the skull was not visible. The woman’s face had the icy, ethereal beauty of a goddess, the sort of timeless grace that could only come from an immortal. The pale blue sleeveless dress of the woman was fastened around the waist with a silver belt of sapphires and metal links, the skirt cut with two slits to allow for better movement and running, Chaos assumed. But it was the sort of energy, the faint aura of power, not as strong as the other gods Chaos had come across, that made her doubt that she was human. Which meant… “Thaeth’sa.” They said, narrowing their eyes suspiciously.

The other woman’s own water-made eyes widened slightly, the icy expression dropping in exchange for one of surprise and bewilderment. “Oh…” she said, slowly, then started laughing. “Oh- I have not met a Sheith’ora in many, many centuries- Forgive my lack of manners,” the goddess said, dipping her head and giving Chaos the Yu’an salute. “I did not recognize you for your kind, although I should’ve seen the eyes. You all have those same eyes, the ones as deep as the oceans. Unmistakable.”

“You’re a Thaeth’sa, aren’t you?” they asked, becoming ever more certain that this stranger was a goddess or a spirit for their apparent knowledge of Godkillers and their casual use of the word ‘centuries’. She held herself like one too, like a porcelain statue or an ivory carving, something too precious and valuable to allow to be broken or cracked.

She shook her head. “Nay, Godkiller. I am not a goddess- I am close, but not quite there. I am a mere river spirit, a… what do you call me again? Ah, yes, a river Ish’kalan. I know many things, and I see many things, and I can do many things, but I will not live forever, and I will never be one of them.” She laughed, a laugh without mirth or joy, a dry one edged with an ancient sort of bitterness and resentment. “Besides, would any deity admit their god-ship in the presence of a Sheith’ora? Nay, child, I think not.”

Chaos sighed, brushing off the name and fighting against yet another rolling tide of sickness and dizziness. “Very well, Ish’kalan. What, may I ask, is your name, and where might I be?” They struggled to keep a level formal tone, fighting through the swirling of the world.

The woman smoothed her dress. “My name is Aecieana. You may call me Ocie, or you may call me Ish’kalan, or Lady, or even River.” Once more, she turned her water-smooth eyes on the Godkiller, tilting her head. “You are a Sheith’ora, are you not? Child of Kinaxus, Slayer of Deities, Destroyer of the Enemies of Energy, all that song and dance?” Chaos nodded. “Then tell me, child- what deity are you here to kill? Are you the cause of that which has rocked my river and muddled my silt?”

“I am here to kill any of them that I can,” they growled, biting back sharp words to describe their despising of the gods. “They… they have done so much harm to my people.”

A silence. “I understand.” Ocie’s voice was soft, something resembling pain in her expression. “They killed them all, didn’t they?” They jerked their head up, surprised that the river spirit would know of such things. “I felt the ripples in the fabric of space itself,” she continued. “And, as a water spirit, I do know what ripples mean: there has been a disturbance. From the intensity of the feeling… I knew it had to be something to upset one of the Primordials themselves. And, judging by the direction, it was the Children of Kinaxus themselves. And, I have felt the echoes of the Husking of many gods, including what felt distinctly like a Primordial but I pray is not so. Therefore tell me, Godkiller, what god did you kill to invoke the wrath of such beings? What is your name?”

“My name is Chaos,” they said, fingering the edge of their Eil’vith’s pouch, the leather bag which held the story of their travels. “Chaos Eprosidin. Chaos, ‘Killer of Epros.’” Aecieana eloquently closed her eyes, going completely still save for the rise and fall of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled repeatedly in equal, deep rhythm. “I’m sorry,” they said awkwardly, scratching their neck and leaning against the dead tree for support.

Those watery eyes opened once more, pining the Godkiller down with a surprisingly sharp gaze. “Very well. We cannot change the past, but we can change the future by referencing the past. Sit, Sheith’ora, and tell me of your story and your travels. Then, we will discuss whether or not you will live.”

Chapter Text

Day 17
Blackmist
Overworlds

It is close to midnight, but I still feel the urge to write, for my stomach churns too much and my mind is too wobbly to sleep. Questions need answers. I must write what has happened before my mind explodes. I have made the acquaintance of one Ish’kalan, a river spirit by the name of Aecieana, after being separated from the rest of my group. After the escape from the palace, Prince Venas Kasuki Renax and Galahad Arthus Crimson joined Centross and I on our travels, but Anderian and Haley, a court member who worked for her and appears to be a priestess of Epros hosting the spirit of Achrien, found us with their army.

Anderian tried to broker a deal in which I traded my life for the other’s freedom. I… nearly accepted. Centross talked me out of it, but the goddess of the mind then tried to kill both of us. In the end, she snapped her neck and I Husked her. Haley’s presence heightened the Trace, being a priestess, and the next thing I knew… I was halfway across the Enderlands, back in the valley near Where-the-Herons-Cry, in the river. Aecieana heard me out. She listen to my story for the rest of the day, giving me a chance to recover, however much I desperately want to get back to my group. She tells me they’re either dead or captured, that the retribution of mortals for killing a god would be quite high.

I hope they’re okay. I desperately need them to be. I cannot even decipher whether it is because my need for companionship grows or if I think that I need them to continue onwards because I find security and strength in numbers. What a… HUMAN concept. I am disgusted at the fact that it does not appall me to enjoy the company of others on a personal quest. My people believe in the individual being stronger by itself than in a group, a part-to-whole mentality. They- WE stress the importance of independence and self-reliance, the power that can be found in standing on ones own. We urge the survival of one’s self before the survival of the others, for we believe that if all are capable of keeping themselves alive, there will be no reason for us to need to worry about or rely on other people for protection. The only issue with that is that I don’t believe they can survive. Galahad and the prince are terribly weak from their time in the prison, and Centross just witnessed me killing his queen in front of him- brutally.

When I promised I wouldn’t kill her at all, too.

It is human nature to make mistakes, but it is not Sheith’ora nature to. I keep replaying it, trying to find some way where I didn’t kill her and we all survived. I don’t even know if they’ve survived, right now. They could have been slaughtered by Haley for all I know, and yet I’m stuck miles away with a river spirit who watches me as though I am a caged falcon who will attack her and fly away when given the chance. Every time I look at them, something in their eyes shifts into stone and their back stiffens as though forced into place with a knife. She does this strange half-flinch when I try to speak, as though she is forcing herself to stop from shivering. I watch her the same way, more out of curiosity than anything else.

I cannot sit still anymore. My hands are itching, my eyes are peering into the darkness. Something happened to bring me here. I don’t know what it was, for my mind is fogged and cracked still from Anderian and the Trace, but I can feel it still. It’s somewhere near me, still lurking and looming. It prickles along my arms and I can’t feel anything but the overwhelming sense of IT. It’s there. The more I think of it, the more I can feel it.

I must go back. I have to try to find them. I need their help to figure out what is happening to me, before they’re gone- or I am.

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The night was serenely still and awkwardly quiet. Down in the valley, Chaos was sitting on the rocky shore of the river, occasionally snapping a stick in half and feeding it to the leaping fire they had made to keep warm. Across from her, her dress trailing gently in the current of her river, Aecieana stared silently down at the fire, the flashing flames reflected in her watery eyes as they rippled every time she blinked. The Godkiller wondered if she was nervous about the flames, being a spirit of the stream, but she showed no flicker of fear in her face if she was.

The two had sat in complete, utter hush since twilight, not a word spoken between them. Chaos did not need to sleep, but she suspected that Ocie was staying awake more to make sure they didn’t kill her than out of restlessness. Occasionally, she got the feeling that the Ish’kalan harbored some sort of animosity towards her, some kind of lingering traces of long-ago ire still clinging to her frame like cobwebs, for she had seemed prickly and reserved since Chaos had told her their story, gazing deeply into the heart of the embers and coals as though the secret to solve all of her troubles and to make this intruding Sheith’ora leave.

Chaos leaned forward, cracking a branch over her knee and tossing it into the fire in a shower of upward-drifting sparks like captured souls, not missing the way Aecieana flinched when she did so. Is she scared of the fire, or of me? I did not pin her as a pyrophobic, but I must admit I like that option more than the idea of her distrusting me. After all, I will require her assistance, most likely, if I want to find my friends again. Then again, being a spirit, perhaps she can assist me in figuring out what in Kinaxus’s beautiful world made me slip several days journey away from where I had been in a matter of seconds. The Trace is the most likely thing, but I cannot get over the faintest of lingering memories of something… cold. And dark. And it came from within, I think… so unlike the feeling of a Trace or any sort of effect from it.

“Ish’kalan,” she said before they could stop herself, then promptly amended, “Aecieana,” as the spirit jerked backwards in surprise. “You’re a spirit of the water, something closer to a god than perhaps I am. Tell me, do you remember what happened in the moments before you found me?”

Those large watery eyes blinked with cool apathy. “Yes. Yes, I can. I was… reminiscing, I suppose you could call it, about the past. I had taken full hold of my vessel-” she gestured to the stream, “-when there was a ripple. No… more a tidal wave, now that I think about it. Far too strong to be a ripple. Not quite as strong as when you Husked a Primordial not too long ago. Epros, I assume, given the whole…” She waved a hand around in the general vicinity of Chaos as if batting away moths as if to show they’re being a Sheith’ora. “Still, it was strong. Strong enough to be an Elder god, which makes since in regard to your story. I wasn’t quite expecting it, although there have been several such ripples in the past day or two. Whatever you’ve been doing, Sheith’ora, I don’t know whether to be impressed, annoyed, or partially in amazement that you have killed so many by yourself. Then again, you were driven by anger from you people’s death and whatnot, and…”

Ocie trailed off, staring into the fire for one long moment before shaking her head. “Apologies. I’m a bit fractured-minded- comes with the millennia, I’m afraid. As I was saying, your Husking disturbed me and my vessel of a river. I reformed as solid and sat ashore as I do now, trying to calm my spinning brain for several minutes, and then… it was like… the best way I can describe it is like standing on the beach right before a tsunami, when the tide pulls back. The world stretched, in a way, and then the next thing I knew, you were here.”

“Interesting…” Chaos mused, staring at a pale gray pebble on the beach, lost in thought. “Stretching? Time and space aren’t- weren’t -Anderian’s forte. There’s nothing mind-related about that. It didn’t have the same feel either. Anderian’s influence had such a distinctive touch to it, and it was definitely not the way the movement felt, from what I can remember. It was cold… I don’t think I’ve ever been that freezing.”

Silence stretched between them once more like a taut rope, frayed at the ends with the mutual indecisiveness and wariness of the other. Chaos fingered the quill pen on her necklace, sliding her finger along the edges of it as they frowned. “Did you kill Vorago?” Aecieana burst out, fidgeting with the rocks as though nervous. “Not that it’s like, a really big deal to me, ha-ha, why would you think that? No, no, this is a normal question and it doesn’t mean that much to me and it certainly won’t be the end of the world if you did, of course, and I’m going to stop talking now.” She closed her mouth and looking away, the firelight very nearly covering the fact that plumes of red had bloomed their way across her face and neck.

Chaos felt her lips stretch into the beginnings of a smile, the subtle tugging up of the edges. “No, I didn’t, and neither did any other Sheith’ora, as far as I know, so you can rest easy, you hopeless romantic.”

Ocie whipped back around to look at Chaos, her eyes widened in something resembling horror and shock and indignation now coloring her face instead of embarrassment. “How dare- that’s- how could even- Godkiller, I can’t tell if you’re joking, ignorant, or foolish! The utter lack of consideration or- or- or brains you must have to say that!” They held their hands up in an act of soothing supplication, but the Ish’kalan barreled onwards, ignoring them. “Holy Aethercadena, did you even think for two seconds? Gods! Why would you say that? Why?” At this point, her angry outburst devolved into a muddled string of mumbled words Chaos assumed were curses and insults peppered with a hefty dash of swears. Despite herself, they gave a slow, tentative smile. It was interesting how much a muttered oath and threat could make her like someone.

“Aecieana,” they said, before their brain could think and stop them, “would you be willing to assist me?” The blond-haired spirit paused their quiet profanity, her eyebrows drawing together and forehead creasing in curiosity and slight offense. “I know it could be considered rude of me to ask when you take into account the fact that we just met, but I still value the outcome enough to ask. I have friends-” a small sarcastic snort from Ocie, “-well, acquaintances. I left them behind in the pine forest when I… teleported, or whatever. The point is, I feel like they’re in danger and I need their help if I want to continue on my journey and to Husk the other gods. Are you willing to make a trade?”

“A trade?” The water which made up her hair swirled suddenly, the crystal-clear liquid becoming speckled with bubbles and twisting eddies. “Tell me, Child of Kinaxus, what can you offer me? Am I a human, to be bribed with money? Or a god, to have burnt sacrifices offered in my name? Am I a macaw, to be fed by hand and taught to speak? Nay, I am a spirit, and few things can train or persuade or force my hand. Speak, then, and hope that what you say pleases me.”

A blink. “Okay, what about I promise not to kill Vorago?” Startled silence filled the air as the bubbles stirred slowly, rising and popping on the surface of Ocie’s hair in tiny sprays of water. A glassy quality overtook her eyes like frost covering those watery depths, thin and needle-bright and distinctly faint. “And Casus…?” Chaos ventured when still the spirit did not speak.

“Wow. Okay, I take it back- you’re… startlingly persuasive. But… are you… serious? I don’t… Vorago… and Casus… but…” She stood, sending pebbles tumbling in her wake and the robes which had been trailing through the water now dragging along the stones in a soaked train. “I…” Aecieana stood at the edge of the river, staring into it. Slowly, she turned to face Chaos, wistful hope on her face. “If you are serious, Godkiller, then I-” Horror and fear flickered deep within her eyes and her expression went blank, hardening into something cold and scared and heartless in a matter of seconds. “I will need to think about it,” was all that she said, except there was no longer any warmth in her voice. It was the level tone of forced calm that made Chaos’s eyes narrow. They wasn’t sure what had changed so suddenly, especially when the choice seemed, at least to them, quite obvious. The saving of two deities she cared about in exchange for a slight favor- and yet, she was acting as though she had been handed two baskets and told one had a poisonous snake inside.

Ocie stepped into the river and promptly dissolved into water, swirling away with the current without further fanfare or farewell and leaving the Sheith’ora alone on the rocky shore in a valley which suddenly seemed too silent and still. A shiver passed up and down their spine as she sighed, sitting on her bedroll and trying to distract herself.

Her thoughts ranged all over, from planning of where they had to go next to deities they could Husk to a wondering of what the Enderlands was going to do now that it had lost their queen. Mainly, though, she fought back tears which sprang from her eyes with little reason or cause and her straying mind circled around and around again to Centross, Venas, and Galahad. If they died, it will be hard to find replacements who are as willing as they to journey with me. Not that I care about having accompaniment, of course, but more of a… tactical advantage to have reinforcements to handle the mundane soldiers, of course, the logical side of her mind attempted to argue, searching for a reason for her uncalled for worry and tears. The other side, the side which they hated with a passion for its weakness, screamed back, If they die, it will be your fault- all your fault, just like your people’s death. You will have more blood on your hands than just that of the immortals. They will call you Chaos Centrosidin, Venasidin- you will be the killers of them, you who were too easily beaten by a PRIESTESS. Do you see the irony, Child of Scorch, you who once dreamed the same path she walks? Beaten by someone you hoped to be.

Definitely loathed that side of her brain, and yet, it conjured up memories, painful ones from before they had ever known this pain called grief. Ones she had buried beneath the weight of responsibility. A hearth, with golden flames. A kind, smiling face staring down at her. A shouting match between a willowy woman in gold robes and a person with coffee-colored hair. A sword, shoved into her arms, beautiful and yet not what she had hoped for. A gilded bowl. A weathered book. A sense of loss and betrayal. A searing pain in her shoulders. Shattered crystals lying scattered on the ground like shards of colored glass. A crown of woven flowers. Sunlight. Acceptance. Black ink like melted coal. Cool hands resting on her forehead.

Faded memories of dreams within dreams, things she had once prayed to the stars above and below that might come true. A thousand tiny things impressed upon the bottoms of her psyche, things they wanted to shred into bits smaller than the crystal shards. It hurts to remember them, a pain reminiscent of losing their people all over again, only this time is feels different because there is no one else who feels or could understand the pain save for themself. It is too private to share, too foolish to explain, and too hurtful to stay buried forever.

She flops backwards against the stony shore, feeling the rocks press into her back in thousands of tiny peaks. Above them, the stars glitter cold and distant, a thousand tiny specks of light in the darkness. The Sheith’ora called them the Eyes of Kinaxus in formal speech and writing, for to them they were a billion suns just like their own, and if Kinaxus had become the sun for their descendants, then it was the representation of a thousand twin Primordials shining up there. Usually, the pinprickles of light had soothed them, calmed their frayed nerves on the rare nights where they were visible through the Mists. Now, they felt separated and lonely, just another blinking light in the universe that would one day be extinguished for good. Even the Eyes of Kinaxus closed, eventually.

Part of them longed to let sleep overtake them for the first time in weeks, just to feel the comatose state of pure blissful unconsciousness. The other half refused to let them, reminding them of everything they had to do and how she did not have days upon days to reaccumulate their energy. Finding Centross and the others. Convincing Ocie to take them back to their friends. Figuring out what had happened to teleport them halfway across a country. Killing the gods. Having a conversation with Prince Venas about what he had done to stop Haley and Achrien, what the strange voice had been. To avenge their people. To stop the continent from dissolving into a senseless war which would kill millions of innocents, even if they were humans. To return home and let the Mists reclaim them. So much do to, and yet all she could do was waste hours waiting for the river spirit to give them an answer.

Chaos leaned their head back and stared at the stars, praying to Kinaxus, if they still lived, to give them some sign of what to do.

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Aecieana dreams.

The waters are murky and distorted. Silt churns around them as they peer into the folds of the ocean, a swampy blue-green of empty expanses. She has only seen the ocean once, on a whim traveling up to the north to where her river met the sea to gaze out upon the endless waters. It was a mistake. …Even now, she sees him as he floats, suspended halfway between heaven and the depths of the world, a bridge too short to bridge the land and the sea and yet unable to let go of either one. His face is like an eroded sea-cliff, dark holes in his bony, unnaturally smooth skull for eyes with smaller crescents going outwards from them in the same abyssal emptiness. Their figure is nothing more than an emaciated skeleton of some drowned man, bones glowing weakly with a sickly green light from within, illuminating the pale white translucent tissue which stretches between them like a twisted version of skin. Around him, a thousand pale tentacles stretch from his head, billowing like clouds in the ocean like a mirror of the same puffs of snow-color that float in the ocean they call the sky. They stare into the gloom, the green and dark blue that swirl around them like a storm, mind leagues away and focused on a soul not unlike his own.

Deeps perceive not the River.

There is a flicker of movement in the corner of her vision, bringing both Ish’kalan and deity alike back to the real world. A graceful woman swims up, fingers long and clawed like siren’s talons and tail swelling around her in a thousand fins of gossamer bone and tissue. Intelligent green eyes formed from what looks like a thousand overlapping pieces of kelp drill into the god of the depth’s own black holes, blinking slowly like a fish’s fins flapping in the current. Tiny bioluminescent scales along her face and shoulders rhythmically pulse in and out of brilliance, forming words and sentences said without speaking. Are you dwelling on her again? They imagine her tone to be one of condescending teasing, light with the faintest swirlings of serious wonderment beneath. The fins behind her ears flick as she fixes him with an eerie stare, one he has learned to interpret not by facial expression but by body language.

She has found the Sheith’ora, he replies, but his does not come from scales. It echoes from around them like siren song in a tendril of pure sound, the voice of the deep itself. I believe that is cause enough for me to cast an eye upon her. Even the most hopeless of fishermen knows how to cast a net, Casus. Why should the lord of the sea itself be any different?

Her tail swirls the silt around them as she moves to the right and closing her eyes in a gesture that describes her indifference far more eloquently than any sigh. Careful, Vor. Your ego grows like a rising tide- I fear it might swamp the cities if you are not careful. Gods are known for their Tlat’ca, but even we must sometimes bend knee to the idea that we are not the masters of the world. The words she used was ‘Tlat’ca’, a Sheith’ora word, one which denotes hubris taller than mountains and deeper than ocean canyons, a complete self-absorption and self-confidence which swallows one whole as the depths swallow all. It describes an egotism larger than a blue moon, intensifying and enlarging with a passing day such as a passing comet, affecting the tide in much the same way. How fitting, for a god of the deep and all which reside within it.

Casus, your tongue is as unbridled as a seahorse. Restrain it, or it will run away without you. It can be afforded to a god to possess Tlat’ca- it helps us remember that we are more than mortal, something above a human. I know I am not the master of the world, for land and I have never mixed well. Nay, Casus, I will not be the lord of the world, but I can be the lord of the sea, and that is a title I think I am well befit. The Ish’kalan has met the Godkiller. She will not let them kill me; I am sure of it. What I have done is too strong to be undone in her, so, for a time, I am immortal. They slowly turned, those soulless eyes latching onto Ocie’s own water-crafted ones, an intelligently grim smile spreading over Vorago’face. Wouldn’t you agree, river spirit?

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“Hey.” The voice was quiet, like water barely running over smooth stones. Chaos tilted their head around to see the blond water spirit standing behind them. She had not heard her move- she never did. It was as though she simply appeared from the air. To the east, the beginnings of dawn were starting to show, the faintest paling of the sky hinting at the arrival of the sun. It had been nearly seven or eight hours, perhaps, diminishing the darkness of the night and slowly swirling the stars above in trailing patterns of light. It is the slow lifting of the hem of the diamond-speckled dark skirts of shadowed evening to reveal the delicate navy petticoats beneath. A faint stirring of wind brushes over her skin, cooling her face flushed from the gently glowing coals of the fire, fanning them into brilliance for a moment.

“Hello. You… made up your mind yet?”

A deep, long-suffering sigh and a rustle of cloth as Aecieana sat beside her. “Chaos Eprosidin, do you know how to carry a conversation with someone, or are you always this annoyingly brusque? There is such a thing in this world that is so common that even I, who have had little outside contact beyond nature, know about it, and that thing is politeness. Now, start over, and this time don’t jump straight into your business and wants.” Blinking, she waited expectantly for Chaos, who merely rolled her eyes, then paused. There was something distinctly off about Aecieana. She seemed… shaken. Scared. Her breathing was weirdly hurried, bubbles rising agitatedly in her hair.

“Fine. Hello, Aecieana… how was… the… river?”

The faintest of smiles crossed Ocie’s face, tinged with amusement and mirth, her voice carrying slight hints of bemused entertainment to, for a moment, dismiss and dispel the panicked undertones as she said, “Excellent. And, now I’m ready to tell you my decision.” She looks upwards, towards the sky where the subtle lightening was becoming more and more distinct. “I… accept your offer and will take you back to your ‘friends’ in exchange for the promise of… in the promise of… Vorago and Casus’s lives being spared. I assume you… you still hold the Sheith’ora quality of your word being more binding than any chain?” Chaos gave a startled, half-offended gasp, shooting them a look. “Calm- I’m… I am merely checking. What limited interactions I have had have taught me caution is… eternally a good place to start. As is,” she said, “dawn. Pack your things. It will be a quick journey, but it is still best to start as quickly as we can.”

Chapter Text

Being vacuumed along by sentient river water was not on Chaos’s top ten list of things they wanted to do. Actually, it wasn’t on any such list, regardless of position, and yet here they were, wrapped in the liquid form of one terribly finicky Ish’kalan, being propelled through the stream with such a force the world was nothing more than a brightly hued blur. It was as though they were suspended horizontally in a bubble of oxygen with a geyser of water beneath her feet to push them along. Swirled, distorted watery visages of Aecieana occasionally shimmered past, a faint outline of her face in the bubbles and currents. The sun was still not fully risen above the mountains ringing their valley, but the sky had paled into a beautiful navy banded with violet and tangerine and puffed with eggshell-colored clouds. The river was chilled beneath their feet with the Lightfade air, seeping through the leather of her boots and soaking the dark brown material.

There was a peculiar pulling sensation, as though Chaos’s brain was a rubber band being tugged in five different directions at once before the ground dropped away in a rush of air and sinking stomachs without warning. Trees and grass and rock hurtled past as the startled scream from Chaos was absorbed into the watery shell around them and muffled. Their ascent slowed in a peaking crescendo, holding them midair for a single heartbeat before hurtling back towards the earth like a meteor. The shimmering surface of a river rushed up towards them, threatening to snap her neck, but a moment before they hit it, they were thrown back up into the sky. This strange cycle repeated many a time, each one going further and further until they were nearly skimming the tops of trees for several minutes at a time while covering leagues and leagues in a single leap. The landscape beneath them changed, slowly. The patches of forest began to thin out and distance themselves from each other. The mountains vanished into rolling hills and grasslands which stretched from horizon to horizon, occasionally broken up by the uncommon village or settlement. Clouds gathered above them as they hurtled north, threatening snow and rain as the temperature began to drop almost as fast as the Sheith’ora’s stomach.

During one particularly long leap, Chaos was watching the scenery pass with a sort of apathy and was enjoying the chilled air, staring at the rapidly approaching pine forest where they had last seen Centross and the others. Their skin suddenly prickled like gooseflesh, the heat swirling just around their skin vanishing and replaced with an arctic gale. They blinked in surprise just as Ocie’s face appeared next to her. “Forgive me!” She yelled above the whistling wind as they arrowed downwards. “It’s getting too cold for me- I had to borrow some of your body heat to keep from freezing.”

“You had to WHAT?” Chaos called back, feeling more or less violated, but no response was given to her. Instead, the liquid bubble around her hit into a puddle of pooled icemelt at the foot of a tree. There was a long, awkward pause before the exhausted figure of Ocie rematerialized on the ground in front of her. Her skin was pale and tinged with a horrifying yellow tinge, her watery hair plastered against her dress, soaking the crumpled material, and her body was shivering, although Chaos did not know if it was from the cold or exertion. Aecieana was breathing heavy, her breath forming clouds of steam in the air as she stared at the sky, her water-formed eyes swirling slowly to keep thin layers of frost from forming over them. She glanced at Chaos, her eyes flicking towards them briefly before turning back to the heavens as her head thumped back down into the dirt. “Ocie?” They asked, crouching next to her. “Aecieana? C’mon, talk to me.”

She grunted, eyelashes dipping. “I am alive, unfortunately. Apologies, I… was not expecting Qin’nin Or’shane to take so much out of me, although-” she groaned, wincing in pain, her features flinching for one moment into something twisted with pain. “It makes sense. I- oh, ow- I have not carried another being along in my entire time of existence, nor have I ever gone so far in the co- oh, okay, give me a few moments… I’m just… going to lie here for a moment.” Ocie’s chest heaved up and down as her eyes flickered shut, hand falling limply into the dirt.

Chaos slumped forward, arching their spine against the rough bark of the pine tree behind them. Spreading out behind them in a crescent moon was the auburn-burnt orange trunks of the pines, sheathed in ashy colored bark and swaying with branching limbs heavy-laden with emerald needles which fall dancing around the Sheith’ora in the breeze like a thousand tiny dancers spiraling into the ground like knives. From somewhere above them glitters the sun through those carnelian trunks in rays of dawn and morning to light the hushed, shadowed forest as though a candle held aloft. It is beautiful, every underbrush tangle and bramble patch which threatens to snare Chaos’s hands and cloak with every movement they make a masterpiece of Kinaxus’s creation and design to the smallest of details.

For a moment, the Godkiller felt something stir up from within them like mist and settle over them in a fog. It is peace; it is a blanket of serenity and silent tranquility which suffocates the hearth of anger within her into tiny embers. It is brief and passing, but it brings them to such a world of flaring hope and acceptance that they cannot help but stagger to their feet and weave their way into this serene and brilliantly quiet wood, leaving Aecieana resting in the needles.

The ground is springy beneath their step, carpeted in fallen evergreen plumage like feathers of pigeons which give the slightest of crunches beneath her boots as she walks. Light weaves and bends around her in a wave of snug luminescence which reminds them of a thousand happy memories: Lightfade festivals, drinking Thurn juice around snapping flames, staring at stars on thin-Misted nights. Ion, affectionately called Marek, head tilted backwards mid-laugh at their own joke. Carnage cracking a rare approving smile. The night Scorch showed a young Chaos the Ath’hala for the first time. Warm times. Fond times. Times which age has done little to fade- and yet there are so few of them which glimmer like hidden lightning in the raging storm of pain and disgust.

The wind whips around them and flaps their cloak in its grasp, disrupting their line of thought and scattering it like dandelion seeds in an arctic gale. It is unnaturally motionless in the forest as though all creatures have vanished for a clock’s ticking to let her simply be. Rocks are scattered here and there around a boulder which rises out of the ground like a sentinel protecting borders in lichen covered armor made of hewn earth and it is uncanny how much it makes them recall the charcoal door which led to the underground catacombs of the Sheith’ora shrine, the very ingress which cut her off from the life she had longed for. The sight makes her legs weak, makes her falter and collapse onto her knees as they stare at that immovable stone over which sunlight flowed like water.

Her eyes fall shut like butterflies alighting on flowers, the sunbeams falling through the pines casting dappled patterns of shadow and passing against their eyelids as their lips part to utter phrases of foreign worship to their god.

“Rikaesh volas Kinax’il en phaer’is.
Rikaesh volas Kinax’il en ash’kanath.
Rikaesh volas Kinax’il en yi’en rith vol’li.
Rikaesh volas Kinax’il en bilan rith halaphe.
Rikaesh volas Kinax’il en linork rith vaentila.
Rikaesh volas Kinax’il ouila saturna.
Rikaesh volas Kinax’il ouila porshil.
Rikaesh volas Kinax’il ouila eornala rith wrae thu’rn.
Rikaesh volas Kinax’il ouila vythen rith phiore.
Rikaesh volas Kinax’il ouila thithanar rith aezaur.
Rikaesh volas Kinax’il en vin’nin thuth’is.
Rikaesh volas Kinax’il.”

The words give way to a rising of memories unbidden to surface, chant and song and call and response summoning back things which she had buried beneath stone and root and rubble. Once they had dreamed of these words. Once they had thought to guide others in their path. Once they had believed in things beyond themself, but once they had also felt the sting from the scorpion of doubt and betrayal and despair.

Needle and stick crunch behind her as she kneels and they turn their head a halfways around to see a cautiously approaching Aecieana coming near, her face a mask of tentative curiosity. “Forgive me, Child of the Second, if my coming has disrupted your time.” Her voice is softer than its usual lyrical cracking of axe and iron but still the words of Common still feel as though a noose is dropping around Chaos’s neck after the smooth words of Elspire. “You have been here for nigh an hour, or so it seems. Look, the sun has risen sharply and my strength has returned. Let us depart from this place.”

An hour as a few minutes, Chaos thinks and speaks, only the words seem stuck and forgotten in her throat, unable to reach the mouth to be formed into existence. Their lungs feel dry and filled with scorching parched winds which tumble through their folds and expanses like a ransacking bandit through a townhome. A furrowing of brows from the spirit with hair of spun glass. “Chaos? Sheith’ora, are you alright?” No more than the rest of us. “You don’t look too good, and I remind you that this is coming from someone who was preparing to throw up from exhaustion sixty minutes ago. Is… everything acceptable?” Chaos’s blinked and looked away, feeling their eyes begin to burn with the promise of salted droplets to spill out from them. White blurred in the side of her vision as soft hands settled on her face and cupped her cheeks as they slowly pulled her head back to facing the Ish’kalan sitting on the forest floor next to them. They inhaled sharply, trying to hold back their tears as Ocie leaned forward, wrapping her arms around the Godkiller and placing one hand on the back of her head. “It’s okay.”

“No,” Chaos sobbed into her shoulder. “No, it’s not okay. Aecieana- Ocie, I…” They pulled away, trying to gather her thoughts. “The Sheith’ora. We- we have this ceremony, after a member of our- our people has passed their twelfth Frosthaven. It’s called the- the Dividing of Paths, ‘Eornala Ashor’kin’. It’s where we choose our path for the rest of our lives. People assume that we all train to be- to be Godkillers, but that’s not entirely true. Before the Ceremony, we’re called Undecided, which isn’t entirely accurate because it’s not always our… never mind. After the Ceremony, we are Ilk’phan. Full. On two paths, we are headed for eight years of intense training with the others from that year which are divided into our same Path, those who become our Osh’ethatan. The third is unique.

“People believe that we are all become soldiers and fighters. No. No, there are three paths, each wildly unique and different. The first was the Left Path, the Path of the Silence. It is the path of a civilian, one who lives as a shopkeeper or a butcher or a seamstress. They build the basic blocks of our society, defending us with a hoe better than a sword, for how can a nation stand without the farmers and fishers and miners?” Her thoughts strayed to Centross, a man of earth and grain forced to fight, and of his nation left without a leader like a snake without a head. “It can’t,” they murmured, answering her own question. “Anyone can choose the Left Path, choose a quiet life and to raise a family and be happy doing any number of jobs. It is a path of peace, one there is no shame in choosing. Not all were made to be soldiers.

“Then, there is the Right Path, the path of the Godkillers and the army of Kinaxus. It is the path of the swordsmen and the fighters, the soldiers and the guards, those who choose to fight and defend our land. They are sentinels and protectors. Not all of the Right Paths kill gods. Few get the chance to. They train in weapons both ranged, melee, and magical alike, spend their days fighting and sparring. They become the guard of the Ath’hala, those who train and fight for us should we be attacked or go to war. When the gods attacked my land… I am sure that they fought until the end, using their training to try and fight against…” Against an army of immortals. One deity was possible to kill, but many, all at once? It would’ve been a hopeless battle and an endless slaughter, and yet they had still fought.

“There was a third path.” Chaos’s voice dropped like a geode into an underground lake, the splash of it echoing off of wall and stone and water like a silent thunderclap. “The Middle Path, one which required a certain ability to join. It was the Path of the Priests and those who could heighten the presence of gods. It was a sacred path, a hallowed road. Those who took that path learned about the rituals and practices of the Ath’hala, learned the science and magic behind Falxspar, became keepers of the secrets of the god and shepherds of the Sheith’ora. They were beloved by all, privy to a level of honor and respect and piety that any would envy. I, especially.

“I could have taken that path. I could’ve been a priestess- I had the skills necessary, the elevation of the aura and the effects of the power. The want, too, for I had desired nothing greater or stronger than the overwhelming need to be a priestess, one of them. The Middle Path was within my reach, nothing more than a ghostly flicker away from my fingers. I loved the Ath’hala, I loved the great god, I loved the work. I stared at those golden flames in the hearth for hours on end as I was half-dreaming and half-meditating on the words and chants I had heard emanate from the hidden places in the shrine like siren songs. I wanted it. Needed it. In my mind, it was like I already had it.”

Smooth hands gathered Chaos’s own up and cradled them like fallen blossoms. “Then why are you here, Chaos Eprosidin?”

And she remembered it all in vivid bursts. “When Sheith’ora children are born, the High Priestess comes. It is tradition for the most part, but it is also because the High Priestess is capable of giving prophecy and foretelling into the life of the child on rare occasions. I was one such child. The Lady, Vim, told my parent Scorch that I had two paths in front of me: the first was a peaceful life as a Ath’hala priestess and servant to Kinaxus and spending my days in the company of the immortal realm. I would rise to no great renowned outside of the Sheith’ora island, but I would become the heir to the High Priestess’s position. A good life, a safe path.

“The second one was a more troubled path, Vim told them. It was the path of the Godkiller, and if I took it I would cause ruination and destruction upon our people and the world, razing divinities to the underworld and striking fear into mortal men’s hearts. I would be the most important Sheith’ora alive, although she failed to mention that I would be the only Sheith’ora alive. She promised glory, honor, holy vengeance and righteous devotion to the Oaths of the Blades of the Sun God as long as my heartbeat, a lasting legacy and mark upon the world. I would be an avenging angel in the name of Kinaxus, the path I would walk dark and blurred, but the assurance of glory lured Scorch too much. They overruled my wish to walk the middle path, forced me into a life I did not want.” They reached up with a trembling hand and unclasped their cloak, letting it tumble to the ground like a dying animal. With quick, agile movements, she pulled down the sleeve and collar of her tunic enough to let Ocie see the thick black glyphs and runes which spanned across their shoulder blades like black knives, slicing and definite and roping all around their neck.

“Gods,” Aecieana breathed, eyes glued to the marks.

“I could’ve worn the markings of a Priestess on my neck, but that night I was instead branded with the oaths of the Right Path on my back.” They let go of the sleeves, crouching to gather their cloak once more. “It hurt like all hell was breaking loose, but I can still remember that there was this sense of loss and betrayal overwhelming the pain as I realized what had happened. Vim got into a heated argument with my parent,” Chaos recalled, the memory of the gilt-robed High Priestess shouting at the smugly silent form of the brunette Scorch. “I went home early instead of staying for the celebration. Scorch stayed behind.” They had danced with the crowds, that night, rejoicing in the idea that they would share in the glory Chaos was promised as her parent. “…My parent had a collection of falxspar, remnants of their travels off-island. I took their Netherite knives-” they pulled the same cruelly dark blades out of their sheaths, “-and chopped each one in two. Destroyed them. Shattered them on the floor of our home.

“The next day, my training with my Osh’ethatan began. Beforehand, I sojourned to the Ath’hala and burned a crown of woven marigolds in the flames with Vim. She offered a prayer for me and begged the god to spare me of the darkness which lay ahead, but I suppose even Kinxaus was powerless in some aspects. She told me she was proud of me, promised me that no matter what I would have a place with her and the Ath’hala should the worst happen. I could not leave my assigned Path, but I could get somewhat closer to that shrine. I trained with the intent of becoming a Shu’taela in the temple guard and not to slay gods, which was perhaps my small rebellion against my parent and the world they had chosen for me. They gave me my sword, imbedded with falxspar and beautiful, but not what I wanted or hoped for. I received my first Eil’vith that day, burned it at the end of the year when I had moved into more advanced training. I did not spend my time in the library or at home- in fact, I was at my house as little as possible for relationships between Scorch and I had grown very tenuous indeed. Instead, I camped out in the sparring ring, dedicated myself to the violence my parent had wanted. Vim came to watch sometimes. During my breaks I would sit with her and study shrine rituals or give offerings to our god or show her what I had learned, and she became a mother to me. I ran to her instead of Scorch when I achieved something great or learned a new trick.

“And, eventually, Kinaxus decided that Epros was too great of a threat unattended and unwatched and that a Sheith’ora should be sent. Vim… I think she tried to argue them out of it, but Kinaxus was set upon it being me. I didn’t want it. I could’ve refused, but who in their right minds would refuse the chance to fulfill purpose and gain glory and renown for their deeds? Especially when it was a Primordial. So I accepted. Vim’s face when she heard…. It was like anything I had ever seen. I think she foresaw her own death and accepted it with open arms, but I cannot help but wonder if she saw the destruction of our people too… and I wonder if she blamed me for it all.”

At last, they fell silent once more and dropped the clearing into ringing silence as Aecieana thoughtfully thumbed one finger over the back of Chaos’s hand, sending shivers though her whole body. They had never told anyone about Scorch’s overruling of the Path ceremony, not even their Osh’ethatan; it had been an unofficially forbidden topic within their family, one which neither one spoke of but both could feel the lasting effects and tension from it, and yet here Chaos breathed, telling a river spirit she had met the day before. A foolish decision, and yet another sign that Centross’s maddeningly soft humanity was an infection spreading into their mind as well. What was it about those outside of the Shieth’ora order that their actions had to eternally be gentle and warm and forgiving? Was the human temperament caused by their sweetly misguided opinions and fellowship one which was steeped in calm peace? They were causing a war, a war between nations to destroy each other in order to lay claim to more of the world Kinaxus created, and yet the individual humans seemed so placid and calm, happy, almost.

Ocie’s watery eyes, reflecting the morning light in pale watery ripples, met Chaos’s own. “Are you ready?” They nodded, letting her guide them to their feet. Her eyes rolled backwards, eyelids fluttering as she dissolved into water, cycloning around her arm and covering Chaos in a bubble of flashing rapids and refracting sunbeams. They turned over their hand, flexing their fingers, and watched the way the water flowed and moved with them like a levitating second skin. Cautiously, she brought it close to her face, eyes wide as the layers of liquid melted together as they met until her hand was in the air pocket around their chest. “Stop messing around and stand still!” Aecieana’s voice huffed from somewhere around them, her voice warped and muffled through the water. “I need you to be still, for gods’ sake-”

“CHAOS?” A voice yelled, making the Godkiller jump and the Ish’kalan surrounding them to groan. A long, thin face covered with numerous tiny blond braids like a tinan from the scrolls emerged from the cover of the trees, followed by his body clothed in faded orange and Enderlands’ armor which did not fit him. “Where were yo- Oh god what is THAT?” he cried.

“Galahad- Galahad, wait!” Chaos called to him as Ocie poured off of her and reformed into a stern, albeit confused Ish’kalan. “Galahad!” He did not listen, instead unsheathing his sword and charging towards them. Aecieana whirled around and dodged his swipe while casting a frustrated glance in their direction, evidently unsure of what to make of the situation. The Nexai recovered his balance and turned back around to face her, seething, with his sword raised. He prepared to attack the water spirit once more, only to be hauled back by Chaos. “Galahad,” she sighed, exasperated, as she dropped him onto the forest floor and moved to stand between him and Aecieana. “Sweet Kinaxus, how dense are you, you fool of a knight?”

He stared up at her. “It was attacking you,” Galahad cried as he tried to stand up only to be shoved back to the ground by Chaos. “I saw her! That THING was covering you from head to toe! It’s a threat!”

“She was helping me get back to you and Ven and Centross, you Ilelka’tan, and you attacking her doesn’t help us at all!” His struggling petered out, his eyes darting suspiciously towards Ocie, who was standing a few paces behind Chaos’s shoulder. “Her name is Aecieana. She’s an Ish’kalan, a river-spirit, and she was being a great assistance getting me back here. In fact, she nearly freezed to death getting me back, which I think is more than you’ve done. Now, if I let you up, will you promise not to murder her?” A defiant sneer at Ocie as his features twisted into a reluctant nod. “Good.”

Chaos moved backwards so he could stand, fingers twitching as Galahad pushed himself to his feet and brushed pine needles from his clothes. The knight and the Ish’kalan regarded each other suspiciously for a long moment like two mountain cats preparing to spring before he dropped her gaze and turned to the Shieth’ora. “We’re this way,” he called far louder than he had to and twisted around to make sure that Aecieana heard before his voice dropped as they walked. “Listen, I don’t trust her, but I sure am glad you’re back. Centross… he isn’t doing too great. Usually I wouldn’t care about his sorry Enderlands face, but he really isn’t okay.”

“Why?” She held Galahad’s gaze as the moved, carefully maneuvering around rocks and trees. “Is he okay? Did they wound him?”

A head shake. “No. No, he is unfortunately completely physically fine and dandy; I wished he got injured instead of this, because it’s quite annoying to sit and have to just… feel the waves of sadness he’s pouring off. I think Anderian’s death really messed with him and his head. Haley said something at one point to him after you left and I don’t think it was a compliment or a handy bit of info.” Galahad paused, inhaling deeply and directly meeting their eyes. “Chaos. He’s not okay.”

Swallowing, they nodded a few times, muttering, “I know, I know, I know,” under their breath hurriedly. “What-What happened after I… disappeared? Did Haley attack you? You- you said she said something to Centross, right? Was that during the battle.”

“No. You vanished and the Enderlands army freaked- cowards. I think they’re raised on myths about you and your people, and they were already unnerved by the… y’know, the whole neck-snapping thing of their queen? Regardless, they we probably just completely terrified by you rippling through the fabric of the universe and leaving Haley holding air. What…” The hilt of his sword wobbled in his hands as he fidgeted with it, staring straight ahead. “What was that, by the way? The whole disappearing act?”

“Believe me, Galahad, when I tell you that I have no idea.”

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Galahad and Chaos arrived on the brink of a small cliff which more-or-less ringed the small, indented clearing of their camp, the slope gradually shrinking onwards until the ground was flat once more. Down below, the Enderlander’s bedroll and the blankets they had nabbed from the Chorusan solders were already lying there with Prince Venas a few steps away sitting on the edge of the small embankment and staring into the trees. “Ven!” the Nexai called, and watched as the young prince’s head snapped up. He still remained Galahad’s favorite, although he wasn’t entirely sure why. Sure, he was the most talkative of his three newest companions- not to mention he fascination with books and Aethercadena, a fact which simultaneously filled him with elation and dread.

He slid down into the camp, feet thudding in a muffled way against the thick pine needles of the forest floor and the smaller shape of the Godkiller touching down beside him. The water creature, whatever Chaos had called it, remained behind, a displeasure evident on its features. A strange being, like a mossrunner from the fables he was told as a child, capable of shifting and changing its form as slippery as a snake shedding skin. Its aquatic eyes followed him as though hooks were sunk into armor and cloth and pulling those blank pearl-water eyes.

Venas dipped his head in their general direction. “I hear multiple footsteps- two? Three? Did you find her?”

“Yes, he found me,” replied Chaos, “although he didn’t do much. Aecieana was the one who helped the most. Ocie!” She beckoned the creature, whose sigh echoed through the dip as it swung over the edge and stalked over. It was an inch or three shorter than he was, although still a head taller than Chaos. It surprised him to find out that Godkillers were so small, especially when compared to the tall gods or the willowy spirits, although it partially did make sense as their size let them dodge more easily.

Ven looked up as Ocie approached, his expression changing from one of interest to wonder and surprise. "She glows," he murmured, and Chaos's stared at him, confused. "During the battle," he explained, "You looked surprised when I gestured to Anderian's soldiers surrounding us because you thought that I'm blind. And you're right- mostly. The specifics of the curse on my ancestors is a bit strange. The first in my lineage to be cursed was a very pious man who loved the gods. He offended Fable, but begged him to spare his sight so he could properly worship and still gaze upon the gods he loved so much. Fable declined, but had pity on him and compromised: The man could still see the aura and presence of gods. My mother wasn't as affected with the curse as most, and the curse appeared to take a long time to take action in me. For a while, we wondered if Fable had somehow discovered how to remove the curse after he married into our family as a slight penance for his generational hex, but my vision began to deteriorate after my fifteenth birthday. Being around my great-uncle helped somewhat as his aura was constantly outlining things in fuzzy little hoops of light, but after our relationship began to turn for the worse.... Well, I have not seen in a while."

"Anderian's aura," Galahad breathed. "That's how you could see- she was like a light source for you. But... what does that have to do with Chaos's new acquaintance here?"

"Well... She's a spirit, right? A nature spirit?"

Chaos nodded, then remembered that he couldn't see her. "An Ish'kalan," she answered. "A spirit of the earth or the water, not of the air or light or whatnot. Her name is Aecieana and she is the spirit of the river which runs beneath Where-The-Herons-Cry- a city Centross and I passed."

The needles rustled softly above them as a breeze passed through, swaying branches overhead and creaking the trees like rusty hinges. "Right. Well, that explains it. I have not met many... Ish'kalan in my life, but I suppose they are close enough to immortal gods to put out some kind of aura."

The Godkiller eagerly agreed, a fact which surprised Galahad. She hadn't struck him as the type to be entirely friendly- quite the opposite, in fact, and yet she had seemed different after he had found them again. It was as though she had found a twin soul in the river spirit, Aecieana, and it was affecting her in strange ways. "That explains it! I felt something like an aura coming from her when we first met!"

"I'm surprised you couldn't sense it," joked Galahad, his chuckle falling away as Chaos shifted uncomfortably. "Chaos? That is what Sheith'ora do, right? You can sense auras? Or was that myth inaccurate?"

"I... There's something I should tell you all something, but I'd like to do it when all of us are here. Speaking of- Where's Centross? Galahad, you told me something was wrong with him but that completely slipped my mind when we met the prince again.'

Ven inclined his head to the right, off into the woods. "He left a little while ago, mumbled something about needing to clear his head. I do not blame him. He's been shaken ever since Anderian's death and I think it really affected him in a deeper way than any of us wanted to think it would."

"Yeah. Galahad told me." Chaos pushed a hand through their hair, glancing between Galahad, Aecieana, and Ven. "Can I trust you two boys not to murder Ocie while I am gone?"

The Fableon prince looked offended, his expression one which the Nexai guessed matched his own. "Of course! If anything, I want to speak with her. As I said before, I have not met one of her kind before- apologies for speaking about you as if you were not here, of course," he said to the Ish'kalan, who gave him a grim smile and a slight dip of her head. "Please, Godkiller, feel free to speak with Centross, and I will make sure our newest friend here is treated well. The sooner the better, I think... He was not in good shape."

"Very well. Ocie, Venas, Galahad." They dipped her head and swept away, heading off in the direction Ven had earlier indicated.

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"Centross?" Her voice echoed through the trees like birdsong, distantly rousing his thoughts. He recognized the voice... His mother, perhaps? No, he had not seen her in years. Too feminine to be his father, and yet too masculine for the girl who had lived next door. Too rough to be the farm hand Martin, too much like stone grating on stone in the night to be that boy of honey-soothing words and soft speech like flower petals. So familiar and yet unplaceable.

Perhaps it was his goddess calling him. It was his fault, all his fault, that she had died- he should've stopped the fighting. He should've returned to her side as a loyal soldier. That's what any truly respectable and honest Enderlander would've done, wasn't it? Damn the blindfolds and face the firing squad, forget the consequences and take the leap of faith?

"Centross." This time, his name was accompanied by a warm hand on his shoulder, summoning him back from memory and time. Trees blurred into shape around him, warm and auburn and speckled with ash from the funeral pyre. He blinked. No, not the funeral pyre- there was none. It was bark, not ash, and he was sitting on his knees in a forest, a pine forest, and there was someone next to him, a face that he knew he recognized and yet did not believe.

"But you're dead," he whispered bleakly. "You vanished. I killed you."

The face twitched into a sad smile. "Centross Daevid Mistvale, you are a hopeless man. Yes, I was gone, but I'm back now, and I brought a friend. Her name is Aecieana. There's much we need to speak about."

“No… no.” He tried to pull away from the hands which grasp at him from a thousand sides, try to drag him back down. Crack. They are his goddess’s hands, his queen’s hands, his leader and his savior and the only being he was supposed to follow and die for, and they are clawing at him with a desperate need. “No- NO. NO, YOU’RE DEAD- I KILLED YOU! YOU DON’T EXIST! I- I-”

“Centross!” They were crying. It was audible in her voice that tears were spilling out and landing in fat wet droplets on his hands as he struggled. Something smooth and warm touched his face and left lingering traces of its memory on his skin, but it was just another hand, just another ghost he’d killed. “Centross- please, I’m trying to help you.”

He shoved off the grasping hands, shakily wrenching himself to his feet, staring at the person still crouching before him. Their face moved, it changed, it fluctuated and shifted like sand smoothed by the waves: there and then gone. Sometimes, it was Anderian. Sometimes, it was Chaos. Sometimes, it was Thiks. Sometimes, it was the faces of the guards he had worked with on the border. Sometimes, it was a thousand other faces of the soldiers he had slaughtered in battle.

“Don’t you remember me?” They asked, a single voice as multitudous as drops of blood in his veins and echoing as a whisper in cave.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could manage, and he didn’t even know who he was saying it, which of the myriad of memories kneeling before him. “I don’t know you.”

Chapter Text

He can hear them talking.

Their voices squall at his head like a chorus of incessant, unsleeping crows, the cawing tugging at the fringes of his brain and dragging him like a lamb on a leash. He thinks he can recognize them for a flittering of a second before their names and faces and memories are lost from him like grains of sand slipping through his fingers and vanishing into the desert. He dreams he’s stuck at the bottom of an hourglass, a single dune surrounded by unbreakable walls which imprison him in and tie him up while those grating particles rain down around him-

Voice, action, memory.

------------------------------------------------------

“Ven was right: Centross is in bad shape.” The three of them were sitting in a loose open circle on the forest floor, with Chaos pacing around them in loops. Ven had elected to sit between Galahad and Aecieana, a living breathing barrier of flesh and bone in between water and flame. They had officially decided to stay put for the night as the Enderlands’ knight’s condition was too uneven and wobbly for them to move onwards- even if he were to let them help him.

“Oh- just the princeling? I said he was in bad shape too, you know!" Galahad protested. "I said it first, actually."

Chaos waved him away with a hand. "Yeah, yeah- we get it, Nexai. The point is, he's not doing to hot and we can all see that. From what I can tell, he doesn't even know who HE is. Sure, he responds to his name, but that's not the point. I've never seen him like this, and I traveled with him for two weeks straight. He's completely out of his head- it's not... he's not himself."

Galahad straightened slightly. "And... you can do anything?"

"I'm a slayer of immortals, you preposterous southerner. I kill, I don't heal, and I'm certainly not a miracle worker."

"Oh- I suppose that makes sense, although in the myths you could do all sorts of strange things." He paused, thinking for a moment, then shot her a speculative look. "You... you can't walk through walls, my any chance?"

"You... No, I cannot. I can, however, put a knife in your forehead if you keep asking inane questions and pulling us off-topic." They unsheathed a dark metal knife and brandished it at the Netherium soldier meaningfully. "Got it?"

He nodded "Yes, I d-" Abruptly trailing off, he popped to his feet, grabbed the tip of the dagger, and pushed it to the side so he could see it better. "What is this? WHAT?! Chaos, you- you tell me what this is right now!"

"Yes, yes, knife made from the bones of your most beloved volcano god. We don’t have time for this, and neither does Centross."

"Damn Centross!” Galahad shouted. “That-" he feinted around and made a grab for the Netherite dagger, trying to snatch it out of Chaos's hands, but they merely sidestepped around him and returned the knife to its sheath. "That belongs to my people!" he cried out, balling his hands into fists and staring at the Godkiller with an irritated look. "It's our god- Netherum did not belong to you or your people! They were ours! Our god! You- just because you- you MURDERED him doesn't mean you get free rights to her bones to desecrate like that! Your shameful acts are heretical and sacrilegious! You would dare to touch the bones of the most sacred of my deities? You would presume to turn them into weapons to use against Netherum’s kind?" Chaos’s face remained impassive, sparing a single disinterested look at Venas and Aecieana, who remained silent and still.

She turned her head back to him, tipping it to the side slightly. "Well, it's excellent to see that your time in a Enderlands prison hasn’t yet ridded you of your inane devotion to superstition and monsters." The knife slid back into its sheath with the audible sound of metal against leather like a shroud against a corpse.

“You! You’re the monster! You-” The bitter words died on his tongue like fallen pigeons as he stared at her face. They were studying him, black coffee eyes set like onyx into a weathered ivory carving tanned and burned by sun and wind as they shifted, chin tilting almost imperceptibly upwards. They looked familiar. They looked like Arthur.

Needles sprayed against Chaos’s legs as he turned sharply and faced away from them while he slowly dragged a hand down his weathered face, stretching the lines etched into his features. Dark circles rimmed the bottom of his eyes, a small trail of blood dried onto the corner of his mouth in a rusty crust and a darkening bruise forming along his jaw like a shadow. For a moment, he looked old- far older than he should, a creature of skin which still bore the pallor of captivity and the faded, sunken eyes of someone who had known chains. What was it that was making him fight so hard? Why was he clinging to the skeletal remains of a god of destruction and flame? “I’m sorry.” A simple apology, not a grandiose one kings might offer or a sweeping low bow like a proper knight might give, and yet it was all he could offer. After all this time, all the training he had undergone, and all it took was a stay in a prison and weapons made from black bones? A member of the pride of Netherium’s soldiers, the Nexai, reduced back to a scrambling man who couldn’t manage his emotions, all with the mere flicker of light across a sharpened edge.

“Such a sudden change.” It was the voice of the unfamiliar guest, the one of watery hair and liquid eyes and skin which bore rivers of cerulean and teal instead of veins. “He could pass as one of those actors in those plays his kind like, for he’s good enough at the quick emotion changes.”

A rustle of cloth. “Ocie, leave it alone. I understand that human emotions are foreign and alien to you and me but we must realize that they do not think nor feel the same as us.” A cool hand rested on the back of Galahad’s arm like a statue: stiff and unmoving and shot through with pinprickles of ice. Chaos’s voice was as smooth as melted butter when they spoke, quiet and accompanied by a cloud of heated breath against his neck. “Nexai.” He felt himself turn against his will, the carven stone hand on his bicep twisting at the wrist as he moved. The Godkiller stood before him a full head shorter than he, dark eyes like infinite ringed abysses going down, down, down without end or bottom.

They held his gaze as she spoke. “Your gods are not my gods. Your religion is not my religion. Your honors are not my honors. Your beliefs are not my beliefs. I do not claim to be like you in any capacity, nor do I think I want to-” a quiet, surprisingly undignified snort of laughter from Prince Venas, “-but you must understand that as much as these knives are of your culture, they are also of mine. To you, they represent the body of a holy god, sanctified and pure. To my people, they are signs of the glory of Kinaxus and the triumph they impart upon their children. I do not show them respect the way you perceive it, but in my own way, these are just as much holy items to me as they are to you. Do not presume that I would profane hallowed tools such as these as though they were common blades. They are consecrated in blood both divine and mundane, purged with the death of innocents and guilty, cleansed in corpse and stone. I hold them not as another weapon, but as an immortally appointed signs of my kind.”

“…Can we talk about the ‘innocents and guilty’ part?” Venas ventured into the quiet. “Specifically, the innocent part? Forgive me if I’m wrong, but… you are referring to murder in cold-blood, no?”

Chaos smiled a slow grin which spread across her face like molasses through snow, just as frigid and dark like their eyes, a feral grin. “My dear princeling,” they said, crossing back to where he and the water spirit sat and gently cupping his chin with her hand. “Murder is merely killing without justified cause, and there was quite a cause in this one. You would have killed a thousand men in battle, and who is to say that no one would call that murder? Could you be completely assured that no screams of ‘killer! Traitor!’ would haunt your sleepless nights?”

“I have never killed a man nor taken a life, not even in self-defense.”

“Did you ever think about it? Did a daydream of blood ever splash across your nobleborn mind? Or did you ever pause to even wonder about plunging a dining knife into someone’s heart?” Galahad did not miss the way Ven flinched against Chaos’s hand, something dark settling behind his eyes like a stormcloud passing over a sun. “Regardless,” barreled Chaos onwards, dropping Venas’s face, “we have more pressing matters. Centross, as we said, is not himself. We are currently in a country which hates us and will most likely either fall apart or be devoured by the other nations within a few days unless we balance the scales, which is to say: we need to kill the other gods.”

Aecieana dipped her head. “Vorago and Casus are off the table, as we agreed. I presume our fiery actor of a Nether-knight over here has claimed the same immunity for his precious pretender queen? And our morally incorruptible royalty over here has also made sure the same rights have been secured for his immortal relative?”

“Ah- no. I actually asked Chaos to kill Fable.” Indifference fringed the prince’s tone, layered like sand upon a beach and just as grating and coarse. It struck Galahad as so unnatural that such a man, a descendent of a god and heir to a throne, could have that kind of treasonous disloyalty. “He is the topic of discussion where Chaos and I are in agreement, perhaps one of the few. He cares little for my people. Perhaps he was once a benevolent and just ruler, but his ages upon this world have made him cold-hearted and merciless. He has become an idol of gold to both himself and has strived to make it so to his people. He wants glory and honor and demands it from us. He may be king, but he is not our leader. He is nothing more than an icon of an older epoch, a monarch of cobweb and dust.”

Galahad stepped backwards, needing space between these traitors and himself. For not the first time, the thought looped through his head like a fox chasing a rabbit: What am I doing here?“I have a question, while we are talking about gods and such, for the princeling with the pretty words. Don’t think that just because we were slightly distracted by the fact that there was a missing deity resurrecting a goddess from the actual dead, we completely missed the fact that you did call Achrien ‘brother’. Also, the creepy double-voice. Also, the fact that you did say ‘do you not remember me’. Also, the fact that Haley and/or Achrien did, in fact, recognize you and that you were somehow able to get them to STOP reviving the dead.”

Those eerily blank eyes stared directly through him as though he was hewn from glass and light, framed with a shock of white hair which curled against his ears, hastily cut unevenly earlier by Galahad with an axe to rid the prince of the mated length. In the slant of the sunlight through the trees, they glittered with hidden colors the same shades as Aecieana’s water-filled veins, emerald and sapphire jumbled together. “Perhaps you recall wrongly, knight of Netherum, for I did not call that amalgamation of mortal flesh and godly spirit ‘brother’, nor did they recognize me. It was a well-calculated play on my part, a faked identification in the hopes of jarring or confusing them. As I see it, it worked quite well. Besides, if you’re trying to implicate me as some god-host, surely our Sheith’ora friend over here would’ve seen the aura, correct?” Galahad could hear a challenge in those words, one he neither understood nor could decipher as the Fableon prince stared in Chaos’s direction.

They swallowed, throat bobbing with the movement. “That’s… I… Galahad, you… you asked earlier about my aura-seeing abilities. I… I would’ve preferred to tell all of you about this at one moment, but given Centross’s current condition, that’s not possible, so…” For a moment, she closed her eyes as though steeling themself against what came next. A slim hand webbed with veins the color of the rain-washed West Sea reached out tentatively from the water spirit as she gently brushed Chaos’s hand in a question, an offer, a show of support, and the Nether knight did not miss the way the Sheith’ora tightly wound their fingers together with Ocie’s after a passing heartbeat of hesitation. When Chaos’s eyes again opened, there was a new steel inside, a determination to speak ugly truths rather than beautiful lies. “The truth is, I can’t see auras anymore. Haven’t been able to do it since I found my people murdered. At first, I didn’t think too much of it as I knew where Anderian was and was able to receive a small amount of directional help from an… acquaintance of mine, but at the Chorusan stronghold I realized that it wasn’t a passing issue.”

“Then how did you know where exactly in the stronghold they were?” asked Ven, and it struck Galahad that the prince had known, somehow, or at least suspected. “I’ve been there with my great-uncle before and I know it’s not a small task to find a singular god in such a massive place.”

“That’s… the other thing. I’ve been hearing a voice. In my head. It’s… it’s like there’s someone else in there, something far more intelligent than the average human and quite a bit more powerful too. It has this personal vendetta against gods, some kind of agenda it’s pushing by urging me on to kill them all.”

Galahad stuck one pale, thin finger into the air in a question. “Two things: first, do you know anything ABOUT this… voice? And second, what does this have to do with the auras?”

“To answer the former of the questions, yes- a little. I know they’re from the void or something like it as they made a passing mention to that in the Chorusan stronghold. I know they’re not a huge fan of Sheith’ora as they called us ‘Kinaxus’s Hellspawn’. I know they’re mental energy using me as a conduit- found that out after an unfortunate brush with a certain material in Where-the-Herons-Cry. To answer your second question, it’s because the voice somehow allowed me to see auras briefly back in the stronghold. I’m not sure how- it said something about my ‘infuriatingly strong mental shields’ and something about breaking through them, and then there was a ton of pain and… I could see auras, for a time.”

“So, wait,” Prince Venas broke in. “You’re telling us that you’ve had a disembodied spirit using you as a vessel and pushing you to commit crimes against the world to an unknown end? And you’ve been going along with it?” A hesitant, almost half-sure nod, but an acknowledgement nonetheless. “When did they first start talking in your head?”

“Just after I crossed into Thrush’s Pass. I was attacked by a Windwraith and the voice pulled me out of the hallucination it put me into so I could survive. After that, I heard it just after I met Centross, when it tried to convince me to ‘accidentally’ kill him so I could kill Anderian.”

“And you haven’t heard it since Chorusan?”

“No- frankly, I’m not sure I want to, even if it is our only hope of tracking the gods.”

“Could you try reaching out to it?” Ocie’s voice was quiet, small, as though she was almost too scared to even put a voice to the idea. It was almost as though she had drawn into herself during this conversation, becoming smaller and smaller while Ven’s posture became straighter and his eyes brighter with an emotion Galahad knew quite well from his time in the army: relaxation. Safety. Relaxation because of safety, because the individual thought he was out of reach of the enemies. It made the Nexai suspicious, brought vague traces of distrust and doubt to his mind, even if he did like the prince the most out of the four more-or-less strangers. Certainly, more than the Enderlander or the river spirit who had gone small. The prince was hiding something, something that had to do will all of this- the gods, the auras, Haley and Achrien, himself, Chaos. There was more to this than he was saying, more that he knew and yet was not revealing to the group.

Galahad was tempted to call Ven out on it, but what would that do? The prince had proved himself a fast talker and something like a good liar, and he did not doubt his skill at bringing glib words up on the fly. No, Galahad would wait. He would bide his time, watch Venas and pretend to be his friend, sit patiently until this child of Fableon revealed his secrets. Besides, Chaos was already moved on, already assuring Aecieana that they would try to reach out to the mysterious voice and giving her an awkward, terse attempt at a smile.

“Right- now that that is over, Centross’s matter requires our attention.” Once more Venas proved himself eager to be over this conversation and to change the topic to something more pleasant and docile, although if the easily-distractable Godkiller noticed, she did not say anything. “Sheith’ora, surely your people had medicine, correct? I mean, all fighters need a good healer.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t well versed in it beyond basic combat remedies for during battles, not more serious matters and certainly not for complex mental trauma! Besides, even if I did know how to do it, ingredients would be scarce. The Overworld doesn’t have a lot of the same plants and flora as my homeland, the Otherworld, you know.” She tapped their fingers against her knives thoughtfully, staring at the ground as though a roadmap to their desires would be suddenly carved into the pine needles by a benevolent tree god.

“So… we find ourselves a city?” Galahad ventured. It seemed simple enough: a town, perhaps in Netherium, where they would get Centross fixed up and the Nexai could return to the place he belonged, back once more with his people. Where he might once more become the man he had to be. Where he might once more purge age and sickness from his skin and continue to live onwards as a vessel of a forgotten land. Where he might repent for his actions and submit himself to the guidance of Queen Soul, the Lady of the Steel Threads. ‘Rivka dol Uyeshesh’, the Nexai called her- ‘Daughter of Heartache’.

And yet, they rolled their abyssally deep eyes at him. “No. No, no, no. We cannot find a city. Even if the Enderlands is in disarray right now because we did, in all fairness, kill their queen, and even if they can’t waste resources or soldiers finding us right now because they’ll need to protect their borders, word of our great feat will surely spread soon, no matter how well the Easterners try to cover up what happened. We can’t trust Fableon, and we certainly can’t trust Fable, especially if we have his not-so-beloved great-nephew here with us as a part of our group.”

Ven blinked at the title the Godkiller used for him but did not argue nor deny it. “Very well, Sheith’ora. What do we do?”

Chaos gave them that same cruel, wolfish, not-quite-human smile from before. “I have a few ideas.”

--------------------------------

He is surrounded by strangers.

They don’t stop moving, don’t stop touching his shoulders to guide him forward as he staggers onwards like a ghost in the ocean, drowning eternally while grasping for a mirage of shore. He can see the forest around them, see their shadows and the smudges their souls make on the world, but their faces are nothing more than shifting songs caught in the wind: faint, unrecognizable, mournful. A thousand ghosts to haunt his steps, a million spirits he’s killed. He knows he should run, knows he should try to flee, but he also knows that there is no point in running from the past, especially when it surrounds you and holds you down. So, he moves. He walks. Small actions, but enough to calm the swelling waves of grief and shame and guilt inside of him.

Voice, action, memory.

-------------------------------------------

Ven’s fingers brush against the ferns in the undergrowth as though they are cobwebs spangled with daybreak dew, a gentle touch, one filled with caution and warning. In his mind, he could almost hear their hushed voices whispering away to him, telling him of danger. Shhh, they breathed against his arm. Hide be safe don’t tell don’t lie don’t speak don’t let them know safe all is safe danger comes quickly shhhh safe. He doesn’t know why he lied. In that instant, with the suspicious, piercing eyes of Galahad and the confused gaze of Aecieana and the quietly falling apart Chaos, he had felt… terrified. He could not even see them, could not perceive them, and yet he could feel their eyes on him, could almost taste their emotions.

It was terror that pushed him out of control, and Death that had saved him. Sly words on a quick silver tongue came from his mouth, words of safety and comfort. Words to rescue him from his own self- is that not why he had sought out this god in the first place? Was that not why he had risked so much?

And it did, after all, makes sense for the deity to stop his terror, for surely his own tongue would’ve betrayed him and his voice have spoken truth. Not yet, the thing within had whispered, sliding claws over his mind and seizing control, spilling out lies as though they were mere petals in a breeze. Lies of what Ven had done to save their skins, lies of who the prince was, lies of what lay within him. Lies about what he said to them.

Centross ploughed along beside them, his footsteps echoing hollowly through the earth, reverberating through Venas’s skull and mixing with the light steps of Chaos, the thumping of Galahad, and the eerie gliding silence of the river spirit. The Enderlander had lost his spark, had lost the warmth of the fire within him. It was as though his spirit had snapped along with Anderian’s neck, crumbled to dust like her bones and borne away on wings of western wind. Haley had said something to him, something so quiet Ven could neither hear nor understand and yet something so powerfully destructive it had rendered the mind of the knight nothing more than a corpse.

To the prince’s other side, the Ish’kalan herself, Ocie. She glowed with the gentle light of stars, enough to frost the edges of the world around her in the same pale oceanic tones she bore and yet still not enough. Never enough. This was what the deal was to save him from, this was what the god he hosted had promised him. This was what he hated to see. He was not sure why the river spirit was coming with. Before they had left, she had spoken in hushed tones with Chaos, whispering something to them before simply turning to join the group as though she had never done anything else.

Beyond Aecieana, Galahad, his garments rustling cloth and his armor clanking Dusksteel. Ven likes him best of all, for he is first to pop a joke or laugh as though he has heard the funniest of all things when you said nothing at all. He casually annoys Chaos, pokes fun at her and her people with his myths and his questions. He makes Venas feel safe, as though he has found a valuable friend in the midst of these killers and murderers.

Did you ever pause to even wonder about plunging a dining knife into someone’s heart?

Ven shivered beneath his jacket. Chaos’s voice echoed through his head, a reminder of what he had done. Now, the Sheith’ora led the way through the trees, her back turned to them all and their gaze ahead, the slight limp in their leg still there, but he couldn’t shake the memory of their words. They unnerved him more than they should, colored his heart with guilt. He can hear the quiet thumping of her Eil’vith against their side and his fingers twitch subconsciously, reaching for it as he snaps his hand back. It is a book, his heart sings out longingly, desperate to feel the thin fragileness of the paper and the faint marks of the ink. He has always loved reading and the manuscripts, even after the blindness set in. He learned how to feel the slightest of differences in the way each page feels to his questing fingers so he would not lose the thing he loved most. It was slow and could be frightfully aggravating depending on the author’s handwriting, but it was reading, and that was all he cared about.

A slight touch grazed across his shoulder, the barest of contacts from a hand formed from a river. He turned his head towards the figure of Aecieana, glowing like abalone, her pace immediately slowing so she dropped behind the rest of the group a few feet. Venas did the same.

“We’re heading directly west,” she murmured. “Towards the borders. I do not know what plan Chaos has conceived, but I fear it means you might have to return to your own country.” The fabric of her dress rustled softly like folds of silken water whispering around her, a sole sound in the hush which fell between them. She asks, “How did you get imprisoned in the Enderlands?” His blood cools like the first frosts of winter and he can almost feel himself pale. “You are a prince. You should’ve had guards around you at all times, even if you went on some obscene walk by yourself- not to mention the fact that you would’ve been in Mythport, distanced from the border.”

Ah- how indeed?

His own foolishness? His own greed? His own mistake? Nay, not his alone.

It had been night, a warm, humid night as a tropical storm was blowing up from the southwest and cloaking the capital of Fableon in a blanket of heavy rain-cast fog, the last time he had seen his country- one of the last times he had seen. The library had been well-lit, the same place and time Anderian had showed him during the battle, the candles and the endless shelves and the aged tomes filled with knowledge. The table where he sat. The chest. The amber encasement of the deity’s tears. The wine-colored candle, dark beneath his trembling fingers as he lights it.

His vision had trembled sharply, the world wobbling around him like a top set into motion as he had read the words from the thick grimoire before him, words making little sense to his mind and yet important nonetheless. The candles had dimmed, their flames still burning strongly and yet the light they gave vanishing into the air like water poured into an infinite glass. Ven finished the chant, swallowed hard, stared the amber orb tucked between candle and crystal and herb and ink scrawled runes, watched as the dark shape within began to shift and stretch and move. The wind picked up, squalling outside the glass roof of the library and smashing waves of raindrops against the panes while the table shook with the rolling tides of thunder. The small pocket of shadow within the honey glass grew outwards as it extended needle thin tendrils outwards- almost testing its environment. For a moment, it drew back as though appalled by something, returning to its quiet dormant state. Ven peered closer, a thread of disappointment and surprise wheedling into his heart.

The amber cracked.

A single smooth half of the ball slid off to the side, landing on a table with a thump and rocking gently, leaving the droplet of innocuous-looking night exposed to the air. The library shimmered in and out of view as the liquid spiraled upwards, defying gravity, growing and extending thousands of ropes and strands outwards, tangling and multiplying and interweaving. The candle flames extinguished leaving not a trail of smoke behind, their heat and light swallowed whole by the creature unfolding before the prince.

It was a tangle of mass and shadow, writhing around, searching. Ven’s vision pulsed in and out- sometimes color and shape and life, other times a sea of darkness lit by a single glowing anamorphous shape. It stilled, calming like the waves in the ocean, slowly offering a human-like arm from within the murk towards him, one as serene as though carved from oiled ebony.

It had gripped his arm, and the rest was forgotten.

A twig snapped ahead under Galahad’s foot as the prince sighed, looking away from the expectant Aecieana. “A long story.”

Her luminant features twisted as she raised a single eyebrow. “Tis a long walk to wherever we are heading.”

“Long enough to encapsulate several centuries of time?”

“You don’t look as though you could be as old as that.”

“Neither do you, and yet here you stand, Ish’kalan.”

“I’m walking, princeling, not standing.”

--------------------------------------------

He is dreaming- drowning, really.

Drowning in a sea of memories. Some have gilt edges wrought in the gold of happiness or the silver of peace. Some are overshadowed with the purple hues of guilt or the pale greens of fear. Some are bright, other faded. Some are polished, some scratched, some on the brink of oblivion and forgetfulness, but all are sharp edges and shattered, serrated tips. They cut into his skin, drag him down until he is fractured like they are, scarred and lacerated inside and out, nothing more than a soldier of silence and doubt.

His mind feels frayed and raw at the edges as though something has torn and tugged on the edges until they have begun to unravel like an aged shroud, revealing his faults and his sins and his actions one by one.

He’s a good man, isn’t he?

But good men don’t take lives. Good men follow orders and commanders. Good men are merciful and kind. They are not monsters who rend the sky and swallow the sea and bathe in sanguine pleasure. They do not live in regret and shame. They have no ghosts to haunt their days and shadow their nights, to stalk in their steps and hunt them quietly. Good men do not hide from themselves. Good men do not forget the names of those they have injured. Good men try to rectify their wrongs, try to pay a penance for their sins. Good men do not worship gods of death and sorrow. Good men do not kill the gods they follow. Good men remember- maybe that’s why all the ghosts still hold their grudges.

For they were good men, and they do not forget.

Chapter Text

Men were made from stardust and sunlight.

That was what they whispered in the cold halls of marble so white it was a near luminous blue, what scholars with their heads bent over ageing parchment muttered and wondered. What the old librarians giggled about like young children tucked behind shelves. What the scientists spoke of with wide eyes and wobbling voices. What they dreamed of during the day while the palace halls were silent with the quiet hush of slumber and sleep.

That was Alerion’s favorite time of the relentless summer days in Aethercadena, those heaps of hours in which the sun did not set and did little more than bobble above the horizon for a minute before rising steadily once more. Summers bored him like nothing else, for how was he to see his beloved stars when the infuriation of Kinaxus’s Sun cycled in the heavens? Nights had no meaning, so it was the daytime hours in which the selectively nocturnal inhabitants of the Frosthold rested. It assured him quiet and peace, a serene time for him to be alone in his ethereal halls and to be secure in the knowledge of his safety.

His footsteps did not echo through the corridors in waves of rippling, reverberating sound, even though he had been promised the acoustics were perfectly designed so that the guards might hear any movement from halls away. In fact, his feet did not even touch the ground, hovering a few inches above the polished near-glowing stone while his night-sky cloak snaked behind him sinuously. Guards might need to hear intruders, but was a king in his castle an unwelcome guest, that he should feel the need to announce his presence to every passing subordinate? His business was his own, and the stillness of the Frosthold was too perfect to break.

‘Jewel of Aethercadena’, it was called. ‘Whitebird Palace’. ‘North Crown’. ‘White Hall’, ‘Boreal Castle’, ‘Eye of the Wolf’, ‘Star from the Eastern Sea’. A thousand names for the hall of study and scholar and star. Renowned throughout the continent as the prize of the northern reaches, a place of poetry and planets and page, astronomy and academy and awe. Learning. ‘The University Palace’, it was called.

Alerion called it ‘Il’shaba Petrov’, broken Elspire for ‘Little Moon’.

It was a beauteous place, carved straight from ice and marble in streaked combination and hewn from the arctic world. Rumors flooded about its creation, that it had been a gift from Epros to their favored Elder god, that it had been carved by Alerion himself with his own fingernails alone, that it had simply always been since the dawn of creation, that it had been a dwelling place for the northern lights, and, of course, the ever popular theory that it had been sung from the fabric of the world by the arctic spirits thus the nickname of ‘Icesung palace’. The god of space and lord of the northern realm had never deigned himself to neither confirm nor deny any of the flitting gossip which passed from hall to hall like ghosts.

He pushed open an ivory door, one plainly carved like all the rest and simply made, nothing more than another access in the corridors of skylight and glass and yet leading to a single square shaft which rose straight from the floor, a space made from the slickest of polished materials, four feet across and taller than twenty feet. It was designed so that no one but the deity-king himself could enter.

He began to float gently higher as though propelled by some unseen force through the air until he touched down on the floor of the hidden room, incandescent skin swathed in the shadowed darkness of the study.

It is a large circle, one which takes up the entire next floor of the Frosthold. Few ever wonder aloud why the stairways from these two levels seem to take much longer than the others, but if they stopped to ponder to another, they might find a bit more than they bargained for. The entire room is in shades of abyssal cobalt and black, carved jet and onyx spangled with moonstone and selenite in spiderwebs of stars. Bookshelves set into the walls rise to about a foot above the floor, darkly bound tomes within titled with silver lettering. A large desk curves around in a semi-circle on the far side while pale globes of light hover quietly throughout the room, a slight buzzing noise emanating from them as he approaches.

Alerion waves his hand at one of the sensors against the wall and the protective runes etched with redstone set into every wall flicker for a moment. Slowly, webs of glowing dust appear between the gemstone stars, turning them into a net of constellations. Redstone has never been his forte, but when one strives to know all things, one must learn about all things- even the articles of life one despises. In any matter, this conglomeration of runic wards and modern wiring is the greatest protection he knows of. The redstone locks the door to the hall and shuts the shaft up to his office with a piece of marble which blends in well enough to the point of the seam being nigh impossible, as well as triggering a series of sensors and experimental sound-sensing plants around the room so that every noise and motion is noted carefully and notified to him.

He leans down and rummages through the shadowed underside of the desk, searching for something. With a snap of his fingers, one of the levitating balls of light floats soundlessly over, illuminating the small button inset into the desk. Arisanna installed it for him recently, yet another ‘pretentious safety measure’, as she had jokingly called it, and yet one that he felt as distinctly necessary. With a pop, the lining of the desk popped up and he swung the surface of it upwards to reveal a hidden compartment beneath. Quiet chimes of silver bells sound as it opens, followed by more tinkling as he shuffles out a sheath of papers and closes the lid.

They are reports, stories of quiet borders and safe harbors, of united peace between the four nations and a serene balance of power within the world. They are requests, pleas for items and assistance and funding for organizations and causes throughout the nation. They are letters, writings from old friends and new acquaintances alike, ink-covered paper holding meaning and memory.

He spends some time sifting through the documents, writing the occasional response or rough draft for a law. His fingers pass over the gilded page announcing the wedding of his brother Fable to the lady Isla of Eastpoint, a lengthy report on the progress of catalysts from the Farland Research Facility, a note from Haeihaei concerning strange movements of stars. Alerion leaned back, closing his eyes and sitting in silence when he finished, unmoving.

A chime.

With infinitely slow movements, his eyes open, glowing a soft ice blue as he turns to survey the room. All he sees are empty walls and shadows softly illuminated by dimmed balls of light- and yet, even as he looks, a second chime sounds from the runic redstone system and his hand drifts to the silver dagger sheathed at his waist.

He never gets to use it.

-------------------------------------------

The stars glitter through the tops of the pine trees like husorye scales in the night, luminous teardrops backlit by the waning gibbous moon. Chaos leaned against a trunk, head tilted backwards as they studied the constellations spangled above, the rest of the group sleeping around them. Ocie muttered something in her sleep, rolling over and flinging an outstretched arm outwards into the pine needles. They had noticed that her physical form became vaguely see-through and immaterial when they slept, almost a mix between the liquid and solid stages of the Ish’kalan like surface tension holding together water.

She confused Chaos. Something about the nature of her soul and existence tugged on the Godkiller’s psyche and appealed to them as though the traces of immortality which lingered on her attracted Chaos like bees to pollen. They found themself watching her, waiting for her, attempting to make sure she was comfortable with the group. She moves like a tongue of flame on a candle- sometimes still and almost statuary and sometimes flickering wildly as she moves but in all circumstances eternally blazing from within. Water on fire, in a sense.

They still remain within the boundaries of the pine forest, despite their day’s traveling. Although they had previously decided to make camp for the remaining hours of sunlight, once they had a purpose and a destination Chaos had urged them to break camp and move onwards as far as possible, managing to bring Centross with, who seemed to have shifted into some desensitized trance-like state. With the falling sun before them, they had shifted into the easy cadence of travel, the rhythm of footfall and rise yet pounding in her ears as they sat quietly, having taken night-watch yet again.

It was not as though there were other things to do. Sleep was something they could not attain right now, for the rest would be forced to continue onwards for longer than a week, time they could not waste nor throw away nor spend waiting around and tapping their feet as Chaos slept. Besides, there was no point in anyone else taking watch when their night was entirely free, and someone had to guard the others.

And yet.

And yet. And yet, she could not bear to stand around and wait until the sky paled with the rising of the sun. And yet, they wanted to do something useful to pass the time. And yet, Chaos was still just a mere sub-deity, deigned to experience a long-lasting boredom which accompanied night-watch. And yet, they were forever doomed to exist as an in-between of god and mortal.

They pushed themself to their feet, needing to pace. Pine needles catch on the corner of their cloak, slivers of washed-out auburn in the waning moonspan. In Sheith’ora folklore, pine was a tree of protection and new beginnings. It represented safety and surety in the fresh starts and the new initiatives, a chance for a clean slate free of repercussions. It was burned as an unspoken prayer to the Primordials, a plea for an open road and safe beginnings, a begging cry for the unseen step into the shrouded abyss of roads untrodden and ideas never before conceived or taken into the hands. Rings of the stuff had grown in the northern reaches of the Otherworld, tall and stately, a barrier between them and the chaos of the tainted mortal lands. Now, it was as though Chaos had shifted into that border, was striding ever closer towards the uncrossable line which marked the differences between a Godkiller and a human.

If she crossed it, what would happen? Would it blur, like a scuffed mark in the dust? Would it appear different from the other side, a new perspective caused by a change in location both physically and mentally? Or would it become a wall between them and everything they had known, impenetrably and impossible to go back across?

She sighed, pausing in their pacing to once more look at those distant stars and cold moon. Eyes of Kinaxus… The eyes of a god. The god of the Sheith’ora, Chaos’s god. Their breath billows around their mouth like a silvered cloud of cobwebs wreathing that sky shaded with curtains of scattered clouds, just another barrier between the grounded Godkiller and the dead deity they worshipped. Ever since the Scattering, Chaos’s faith had suffered, taking a back-seat position to the vengeance they desired so strongly. What had once been the most important thing to them had become nothing more than a faded memory for a time and even that was slipping into oblivion. It was changing for the better, they believed. It had started earlier that morning, in the pine forest, with the rocks. Something was returning to them like a thief in the shadows, suddenly there and present and whole.

Faith. Fools clung to it, zealots lived on it, traitors had lost it. After all this time, they still had it. So, what did that make them? A fool, a zealot, or a stranger walking on the path leading to treason and disloyalty?

“If you’re out there…” the words left Chaos’s mouth before they could think about them, hushed whispers born into a cloud of misted condensation in the chilled night air. Her eyes strayed to the sleeping forms of her… companions. They had not stirred from their rests, continuing to slumber onwards in their blissful ignorance.

No, prayers were not meant to be spoken here, not in the company of mortals and spirits. It was not proper for them to be in the presence of such a vulnerable and intimate cry to a god from one who was supposed to be the strongest of them all- but what was the alternative? Leaving them all abandoned in the darkness to slip away to offer slow prayers beneath a watchful moon?

Their feet turned of their own accord and they vanished into the trees.

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Galahad dreamed.

The battlefield was thick with acrid smoke drifting across it in bands of storm and ash, choking his lungs and scorching his throat as he tried to breathe through his mouth. It was not much of a fair trade- to either smell the odor of festered flesh and burning bodies or to inhale so much of the choking fumes he felt as though he was about to pass out. Around him, fires from the flaming arrows of the attacking armies blazed unceasing upon strange crimson stone-like roots which seemed to writhe and twist in the shimmering heatwaves as though living intestines and organ beneath his feet. Lumps of corpses and bleeding men torched by the flames were piled and scattered throughout, the ones half-living groaning in pain from puddles of blackened blood. Salt and iron mingled with the smoke as he walked, the grime staining the edges of his trails.

He recognized this armor… it was his Nexai uniform, thin plates of quartz white so as to not restrict movement with bulkiness, edged with gold curls and his trails, two long pieces of cloth attached at the shoulders and fluttering behind him in the damp air. Despite the sanguine mud and the soot filling the air, his clothes were unstained, unblemished, unwrinkled. It was as if he had not fought at all, as if the wartorn he walked through was merely a stage he was set to act within.

“Arthur!” he yelled; his voice was swallowed up in the seething air. “Arthur!” Still, no reply. The world was nothing more than a vacuum he walked within, a place sound was not welcome. He parted his lips in a cry once more- “ARTHUR!” -and, this time, it was a guttural scream torn from his throat like breath snatched from a dying man or a gilt trinket into the hands of a soulless thief from the ragged fingers of a street rat. “Anyone!” Nothing but silence etched with the crackle of fires and the groans of men already halfway to the Xunanora.

He stumbled towards one of those dying moans, his feet catching on something fleshy like an arm from a rotting corpse; with one hand he shielded his eyes from the smoke, the other grasping blindly around his neck, searching ravidly.

“Please,” he sobbed, collapsing to his knees in front of a soldier whose body was pierced with three arrows, his armor cracked and the fabric beneath soaked with blood. Galahad could feel the muddied pools of blood sloshing around his knees and shins as the liquid hunted for a crack in the armor to seep through. “Please, brother, tell me- tell me…” his voice trailed off as the man let forth another murmured whimper, his eyes staring straight through Galahad. “Brother?” He grasped the man’s hand, but it was as though he did not exist, for the man did nothing more than continue his deathbed pleas. With trembling hands, Galahad scrabbled at the neck of the Nexai, rummaging desperately, his fingers parting the stained charcoal-colored collar of woven steelthread, his bare hands meeting soft, almost saggy flesh.

There was nothing.

“No- no, no, no!” He stumbled to his feet and staggered backwards away from the man, slowly turning in a circle, surveying the battlefield. Nothing, nothing but smoldering pyres of sword-pierced and arrow-stricken bodies of his companymen and brethren, smoke billowing from crack and crevice and tattered banners hanging from spears stabbed into the blood-soaked earth. Nothing. His pace became frantic as he spun, dashing blindly over the legs and torsos of severed men- men he knew. He ran, tears blurring his eyes as he peered towards the horizon, desperate for some trace of something beyond this wartorn-

A hand gripped his shoulder, halting his blind fleeing and jerking him backwards. He turned, breath coming in horrid, stench-filled gasps. It was a gloved hand, one covered with tight-fitting white gloves like fresh snowfall on a polished mountainside, something which did not fit in this place. Thin, delicate chains of gold connected rings on the middle, thumb, and fifth fingers to a circlet around the wrist, one carved with the highest rank of the Netherium army in glyphwriting. The glove gave way to a uniform near identical to Galahad’s own, one changed with added knots of gold around the wrist cuffs. A pure white hood emerged from beneath the armor and trails and shrouded burgundy hair tightly pulled back into the shadowed depths of the hood. The face was covered by a smooth white unadorned mask, a shell which gave no hint as to facial features or even eye color beneath the pale, hollow covering.

“Honored sister,” he whispers, sinking to his knees beneath the goddess’s arm, head bowed. Relief was like a tidal wave washing over him, breaking through his walls of panic with the force of a tsunami. A familiar face- or lack thereof -of a goddess who had guided his step for years. “Praised be thee before men and gods, beloved of the Nexai.”

“Look up, child of mine.” The goddess inclined her head slightly towards him, towering over him like a thunderstorm. “Tell me,” she said, voice like a crack of thunder, “do you know this?” One gloved fist uncurled to reveal a golden cord curled on their palm, a brilliantly glowing orb hanging from it.

His eyes widened in surprise, full of the light which poured from the necklace like a small sun. “My… my Core!” Galahad cried out, his hands stretching outwards towards it blindly, fixated on the radiance of the holy symbol. “Honored holy sister, I…” The goddess pulled away the core, dangling it from the gilt chain like a toy before a feline, just barely out of reach in a tempting offer. He darts for it again, only to have it jerked backwards once more, and he can swear that the blank mask which stares back at him jerks its chin up in imperial distain. “Holy one, what are you doing?”

She turned her hand over, watching the Core rolling around in her palm. “This is your holy symbol, is it not? The one I gave to you when I brought you into the fold of my sheep? The most revered object to you?” He nodded. She cast it down into the bloodied muck, planting one foot firmly on it, pressing it into the grime so its light was dimmed and faded by the mud. It flickered, once, twice, beneath her pristine boots.

“Goddess!” He cried, grappling at the dirt.

She kicked his hand away, planting one foot into his chest and shoving him backwards. The liquid sanguine dirt splashed around him, droplets hitting his face and covering his armor. In that moment, the goddess was exactly that: an immortal force of righteous anger and divine blessing, a spear of rage directed straight at Galahad. “I gave you a gift!” she yelled. “I brought you up from the destruction of your nation! I remade you! You… I gave you everything you could dream of! Is this how you repay me? Running through the woods with a Sheith’ora, one of the kind who slaughtered Netherum? You know she holds the knives, the bones! And yet, you follow her? This is not how I trained you! This is not how Arthur trained you!”

The name felt like a slap to his face. He parted his lips to speak, but the goddess slammed a foot into his chest again, leaning close, a blank mask of white. “You. You have two weeks. Two weeks to kill her, to bring me the knives, to redeem yourself, Tilitan. Two weeks, or I repeal this gift I gave you.” She pointed behind her, to the Core, the golden light flickering dimly. “Kill them. Take the knives. Do as I tell you.” She stood back, straightening like a flash of lightning. “Go forth, my child, and I will purify you through fire that you might rejoin the flock.”

He closed his eyes, and Nexus, the battlefield, the fading Core- all vanished into the air.

Chapter Text

The rocks press sharply into his bare feet as he clambers over them, pebbles bouncing along slate and stone to the ground below as his passage disturbs them from their quiet rest of ages. The points cut into his skin like stares of passersby at a sideshow circus and the wind is unrelenting as it gusts against him in billows stronger than granite and harsher than blows from wardens with batons, but still he presses on, for his brain is fueled by mindless grief and cold-hearted rage which lies in his stomach like a corpse. He must not stop, for he knows that he will lose them all over again if he does.

It has been days of ceaseless wandering and tracking of the group, however slow-moving they might be. He is tired, aching, and starvingly hungry, but he forces his body onwards regardless, for he fears that they will vanish into the thin air of the mountain like a cloud in the summer. He has lost so much, so many things and people that he cared about to them. Vikesh. His sister. His father. They would council him with grace and mercy if they stood with him today, only the Godkiller had taken that from him and so the mercy was taken from them.

Justice, after all, he thinks, was often brought about by the guilty individual themselves. He does not believe in Torhaelian the same way the wolf-kind of old did, those who stretched behind him into the hidden oblivion of the past, but even he cannot deny his faith in the undying universe to bring about a repaying of blood debts owed.

He stumbles over a rain-slick stone and the serrated edge slices neatly through his calloused skin. Sucking in a breath, he presses the palm of his hand against the mountain and glances down at where the rock is stained vermilion and the same sanguine liquid drips from the pad of his foot. The edge of his golden sash tears easily; it makes a quick make-shift bandage around his foot, but he cannot spend precious time to properly wrap it beyond the simple knot he forms.

The stones begin to clatter once more as the shape ascends higher over the mountain. Distantly, from the peak, a form stands watching. A single blue petal tears from the flowers ringing the figure’s head in a wreath of cobalt so violent it nearly glows against the spun-sugar of the gold hair. Down drifts the soft, velvety orchid petal like a dragon’s scale in the sun, bourn on the wind down to land to rest in a bloody footprint left behind by the tired hunter beneath.

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The early morning light filtered through the trees in gently shifting beams, illuminating drifts of pine needles shaken by the night-time wind and gently speckled around the bodies of the sleeping group. Three sleep soundly, one stares into the trees in a dazed stupor, a fifth sitting quietly a ways ahead. The first of the three shifts in her sleep, face twisting and expression shifting as though viewing something unpleasant. Her hands begin to twitch, bubbles rising agitatedly through its liquid hair and muscles tensing.

In one fluid, sudden movement, she throws herself from its horizontal position to sitting, stumbling forwards, breathing erratic and watery eyes wide, darting back and forth as if she was unaware of its surroundings. Slowly, her posture relaxes, the spiked shoulders dropping and the head bowing as she licks dry lips and inhales deeply, making a conscious effort to let go of the tension present. It turns to see the fifth one watching, startled by her erratic behavior and sudden awakening. The first gives a taut, brief smile, approaching them.

“I’m surprised you didn’t wake up Galahad and Venas,” was all the watcher says, handing the water spirit a weathered wooden mug full of a yellow-tinted tea, the steam wafting off of it into the chilled air.

“A pleasant morning to you as well, Chaos. How was your night, Chaos? Are you capable of basic human interaction, Chaos?” She gives another smile, this time far more pointed and genuine, sliding down into the needle-carpeted ground and taking a long sip of the tea. What a curious thing, for a creature made of liquid to consume water, something border-lining on cannibalism, perhaps not unlike stars consuming stars in the vastness of space.

The Godkiller rolls her eyes, exasperation evident, but they have the beginnings of a soft grin curling their lips as they sigh. “Very well. Aecieana, beloved of my heart, light of my life, would you do me the honor of holding a conversation with me?”

“…Of course. Thank you.” Easy and soft was the smile, now, like the first rays of pale gold light painting honeyed cobwebs across dew-splattered hills, a sight Chaos had only ever seen upon coming to the Overworld. “Was that so hard?”

They laughed, placing another jewel-red berry into their mouth. “You’d be surprised, my dear Ish’kalan, by the spectrum of formality and discourtesy my people are capable of falling upon. We might be as courteous to a priestess as a visiting king might be to an emperor, but to god and spirit alike we can scorn and blaspheme like street urchins with tempers. Humans… they fall something in between, so yes, Aecieana, I am quite capable of basic human conversation. In fact, my rudeness was far more appropriate than this inanely polite discussion I am holding now.”

“Interesting,” she murmured, staring blankly down at her cup and watching the tea slowly swirl within it. “I do not believe in disrespect as a rule of law, for I have found that, in my few and far between interactions with other beings, it proves far less successful.”

“Speaking of social interactions… why are you here, anyways? Not that I mean that in any sort of ‘leave-now’ manner- I, myself, struggle with identifying humane traits and meanings, but… why are you staying? You took me back to m- to these people, and that was all our agreement required. Why do you linger onwards? You should return back to your river, Ish’kalan- god-hunting is not a sport for spirits of air or earth.”

“Perhaps you are right… I have been wondering this myself. Truth be told, the excuse I have been giving to my own mind is that I am not strong enough to return yet, or that I would freeze along the way with no body heat to borrow and that my river still runs without a guiding shepherd of the waters, but in reality… I… I am not sure why I stay. Part of me feels as though I have not fulfilled my offered agreement, part of me feels as though I must see what I have lent aid to through to the end, and still a third part of me tells me that Fate holds much more in store for me on this road. You do believe in Fate, Godkiller?”

“Fate… the deity worshipped in the primitive Western civilization?”

“Yes. The Shetlek believed that the abstract superstition known as ‘fate’ which almost all today share was actually more of… ‘Fate’, a proper title. They worshipped it as the embodiment of prophecy, the past, the future, and the paths which all living things walk upon. They thought that their lives were planned out for them, that they were nothing more than actors on a stage in a play created and puppeted by something else.”

“Aye. We studied much of the supposed gods of many religions for the reasons of both possible truth and for preparing for the future of deities which might become present. But you… How do you know of mythology in places your river does not run?”

A strange, distant look crossed Aecieana’s watery face. “Water influences all parts of the world. I have often wondered if this, combined with my wellspring rooted in the void, is the reason spirits of river and lake feel the passing of other entities so strongly. Water is present in all plantlife, wildlife, and culture. It is the stem of society and permeates even into the human being itself- even Sheith’ora, like you, carry it within you and require it to survive. Water yearns for more water, for like calls to like even into the realm of nature. I dream of places in which water waits quietly or stirs with the beginnings of a turbulent time. I dream of a connection deeper than you can understand, one which yields more than knowledge of such forgotten worlds. I dream…. I dream.”

“What else do you know?”

“I know of religion and practice for a thousand years of humanity. I know of how it feels to travel with your body spread across twenty miles of water. I know how it feels to stare into the nothingness of the world and know that you are of a dying species of being. I know what it is like to experience the sun rising despite the stormclouds lingering beneath you. I know much.”

“Do you know what is wrong with Centross?”

“I know little of what ails him, but the water in his body and his blood feels normal and healthy. He is not well in the mind; he is not whole mentally. I assumed you knew this when you told us you knew how to fix him?”

“I had my suspicions, and I had my ideas for a cure. Regardless, it would be better if we found another way to solve this issue, as the one I have… I do not know if it will work, and it is quite unpleasant in some ways.”

“And if it does not succeed? If you find yourself still in the position you are now, only this time without an idea as to a solution?”

“…Then I will figure something out. He has come to mean something close to… to a friend, to me. I have begun to admire his courage and resilience, which is great for a human,” Chaos explained, and Aecieana nodded her head in simple agreement, a moment in which both Godkiller and god-adjacent were in accord as to the fragility of the mortal species and to the idea that, regardless of what happened, they acknowledged that the possibility of a cure was never gone.

Another silence fell. “Chaos,” Aecieana said with infinite slowness, mulling over her words before she said them. “Are you… alright?” Surprise flashed into brown eyes. “I mean- did… did killing Anderian… are you okay?”

“I wanted her dead.” She whispers it softly, like a dangerous incantation. “I wanted her to suffer and choak on her own blood and to feel the same powerless grief I felt…” They sigh, looking over their shoulder to see if any of the others were casting eaves. “Anderian killed them. Led the attack against the Sheith’ora; I am sure of it. They had the deepest of connections to Epros… it makes sense that they would have done so. I could FEEL their aura when I went to that island, overpowering like blood overpowers water.

“And yet, now that they’re dead… I feel… I don’t know. Guilty. Grieving, as strange as that sounds for a Godkiller to say. I just… I promised Centross that I would not kill her until he was dead, and I broke that oath. In my culture, our promises are sacred, holy. To breach one is to bring about a punishment worse than death, so I cannot help but wonder if… if this-” she waved her hand at Centross’s trance-like state “-is my fault. I… I regret it. Centross is my penance, Centross is my punishment, and the knowledge of that takes away all of the glory or the triumph or the rage I know I should be feeling. He is a HUMAN, of all things- I should not… I should not value him as a friend the way I do. I should simply think of him as a liability and a hindrance, but after traveling with him for as long as I have, after he has saved my life so many times…”

“I understand. Sheith’ora never interacted with humans much, did they? It is not unnatural that friendships should be formed after the two final meet, is it?”

“No, perhaps not unnatural, but certainly… unexpected. Uncommon. Not entirely… supported. Encouraged. We are taught so much about them, how weak and chaotic and… I do not know. I do not know if he is but a rare breed, an occurrence which happens few and far between and yet yields one of character rivaled by the ones I come from, but I respect him too much to cast him aside.”

As if summoned from their musings of his species, pine needles stirred as Galahad sat up from his makeshift bedroll, and even from her position further off, Chaos could see the trembling of his hands. “Morning!” Ocie called to him, and he flinched visibly. She raised her mug to him. “Would you like some tea?”

“I…” The words seemed to die on his lips, vanishing into a mere shake of the head. The Nexai pushed himself to his feet, absent-mindedly touching his hair and making a small face at the knots and tangles he found within. He stood, not looking at them in a way which seemed almost pointedly obvious, and went aways off before sitting quietly with face turned away.

“Speaking of impolite conversationalists,” Aecieana said dryly, and the Sheith’ora could not hold back a small snort of laughter.

They, too, rose to their feet and dipped her head at the river spirit. “I thank you for the company and the talk, but I am afraid I must wake the princeling.” Ocie raised her mug in a mockery of a salute while Chaos slipped away to shake the last of the company. She watched in a half-detached way as the white-haired Fableon prince rose and exchanged a handful of words with the Godkiller. Deep within, she could not shake the memory of the dream she had experienced, of the visions the night brought on dark wings. How lucky the Sheith’ora were, Aecieana reflected, to not know what it meant to feel fear while one lay unconscious, terror brought by nightmare and slumber.

She had found herself on a beach, one where ice-tipped waves roared against the pale, sharp-tipped sands beneath her. A cliff pressed against her back, stiff rock patched with stragglings of flora and fern, the fronds shockingly dark amid the gray of the rock and of the sky. The sun was wreathed in charcoal clouds which covered it like a burial shroud over twin long-forgotten corpses named Crescent Moon and Eternal Sun.

The spray sends salt flying against her face and cheek. When it passes, her eyes opened once more after the water flung had dripped away. A woman stood before her, long burnished auburn-brown hair hanging down behind her, salted by the sea. Her eyes bear the same distinctive deepness of the Shieth’ora people, the swirling ocean within them, hazel-gold like the first rays of dawn.

“Hello?” Aecieana shouts over the roar of the ocean against the rock.

The woman stepped closer, the thick black marks around her neck shifting like writhing snakes. They are the same bold brands Chaos bears around her shoulders and back, only the markings are changed and the location different. Her dress absorbs the water lapping at the hem into the weave which resembles fallen blurring raindrops tangled together. “Aecieana, child of the rain.”

“Well, that is certainly one thing you could call me. And, since you already have the pleasure of knowing my name, might you return the favor?”

“Not yet… it is not yet time. She, she will tell you my name.”

“She who? A goddess? A spirit? A human? You are speaking about a sizable portion of the continent.”

The woman gave a gentle smile, the silvery salt-encrusted lilies upon her head shifting in the wind like lost souls “Peace, Ish’kalan. You will know. When the time comes, you will know.”

“Do you have any idea how unhelpful you are being?”

“Yes… but it is for your own good. I… I apologize for my inability to say more, but it is already difficult enough for me to even be here, conversing with you. You know as well as anyone that dreams are never just dreams.” She rushed forwards, gripping Ocie’s hands tightly, her skin strangely cold and almost immaterial and yet iron-strong as the river spirit attempted to jerk her hands back. “Listen. You need to tell her that what happened wasn’t her fault, that it’s okay. She needs to know that everything isn’t as they think it is and that there’s more to it than-“ The strange woman cast a panicked look over her shoulder, then gripped Aecieana’s hands tighter. “Please! You need to tell her that the falxspar-“

Ocie had bolted awake, then. Not the strangest of dreams she had had- Vorago and Casus had made sure of that. Regardless, it had seemed so important to that woman on the beach, as though the balance of the world rested upon it.

Although… Maybe it wasn’t her responsibility. Maybe none of this was. Maybe purpose was overrated.

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“Woah,” Aecieana breathed, staring upwards at the peak, the slanting slabs of stone rising protectively towards the snow-covered ridges and shadowing over the caves Chaos knew were hidden there. “And… this is where we’re going?”

They stood at the foot of a slanting mountain, the head of a range which curled around them all like the beginnings of a conch with the mouth pointed towards the way they had come. Mists obscure the mountain from about halfway up, the slabs of stone which made up the angled face vanishing into the cloud.

“Where I’m going,” replied Chaos, swinging their bag to the ground. “Me and Centross. The… the person who… it is better if as few of us as possible go up those slopes. Our friend here is the reason we are even present at the base of this mountain, and I am the only one who knows what to do.” They looked up at Ocie with their head still tilted towards their grounded backpack, thick brown eyes peering up to meet blue water through their eyelashes. Raising her voice, Chaos blinked back towards their work of rearranging their cloak. “The rest of you, stay here.”

“Wait.” It was Venas who spoke up, glowering from his position as akin to a frowned vulture presiding over the ritual of decease and decay. “You dragged us all to this mountain for cryptic reasons, claiming that you can assist Centross if we simply blindly wander after you. We have done everything you’ve asked, followed you through enemy territory with nothing more than vague ideas given to us in an attempt to satiate our suspicions. Everything you have done has been so carefully cultivated to keep us in the dark about this. I think we have earned the right to some answers, taking your lead with no questions asked, and I think it is time we asked some questions. I want to know who lives up there. Now.”

Galahad stared at him through the silence which perforated the group. “Wow.” The word was like a gunshot in the dark, quiet and yet loud enough to break the spell of surprised stillness which encapsulated them all. “You… you really take after your uncle when you want to.”

Ven swallowed, looking down as he straightened out the wrinkles in his white shirt before raising his head once more, something different about his gaze. Something steel and silver had entered those blank eyes, now piercingly full of knowledge and ideas until it brimmed over into a soft resemblance he would’ve called sight if he hadn’t known better, would’ve called it vision if he wasn’t wiser, would’ve named it observation if he wasn’t a smarter man. He wasn’t him, for an instance. Venas Kasuki Renax, prince of Fableon, wasn’t alive for a hesitation of a heartbeat.

And it was what Galahad saw in the depths of those star-bright eyes that scared him.

“If I could tell you, I would.” The soft voice of the Sheith’ora carried between them, the thing in the prince’s eyes slipping back under like a dolphin in the waves, and the blind courtling turned towards them as though nothing had happened, as though Galahad hadn’t glimpsed a piece of something different in his eyes. “But… I cannot. I am sworn.” The weight of those words was tangible to all in the end of the forest, for promises and oaths made by Godkillers were, according to Chaos, unbreakable and more binding than the stars to the heavens.

The strange noise like that of water-soaked cloth brushing against itself was heard as Ocie stepped closer, light reflecting through her eyes like staring into sun-lit pools of water deeper than the world was wide. “We understand. Just…” She hesitated, reaching one blue-tinted hand outwards and briefly, lightly, ever so lightly tapping Chaos’s hand with her own. “We want to help. Know that.”

They nodded, grasping Centross’s wrist and hauling him upwards gently and began to wrap his cloak around his head, shoulders, and mouth the same way she had done their own, twisting the cloth into a mask across his face and the rest into a hood to shield him from the bitter wind they knew the mountain promised for them. As they adjusted the hem, they hesitate, looking at those mournful amethyst eyes which stare into space.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, enfolding him in a hug which he does not return. “I’m so, so sorry.”

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The mountain was just as unforgiving as Chaos remembered, but it seemed strangely empty and weak this time. Centross climbed without so much as a hint of his old spark or mental fortitude, simply clambering over the stones and following the lead of the one who was beginning to understand just how much of a friend he truly was. The wind whistled loudly between the peaks, rushing onwards uncontained and unbarred by any tree or growth. Raging around them, it felt as though they were surrounded by a private hurricane of their own to shake the cliffs and rend the skies.

They pushed upwards, reaching an indent in the rock face between the two slabs of vertical stone which overshadow the slopes below, smooth and dark gray beneath the wisps of frost still remaining in the shade. Centross stood within the cave-like dip and stared straight through Chaos and over the view with glassy eyes.

“I’ll be back,” she promised, pulling down their makeshift mask and swallowing as she takes a single step backwards. “I’ll find a way to fix this, even if this way does not work out. I promise.” He said nothing. They weren’t even sure if he could hear them. “Just… stay here.” She backed away until they once more stood between the stone monoliths, the path ahead steeply twisting around between the rock faces. With a slow, shuddering breath, they pull their mask back up and continue climbing.

------------------------------------

The sun was nearing the midpoint of the sky already when Chaos reached the peak. Far below them, the clouds stretched out in dappled plumes of white and cotton, hiding the rest of the stained and tainted world beneath it for a mere moment. Beyond, the unedged sky raged like a burning star, blue to the core in glowing, vibrant colors with nothing to block or bind it. A scorching cobalt, the hue of the violence of tsunamis and riptides and whirlpools to which thousands of human lives were lost, a sea above the air as so beneath the land.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” The strangely accent voice comes from behind Chaos, from a familiar woman standing with her back turned. “My own personal world, up here- one only I can see- and, of course… you, Chaos Eprosidin.” Her loosely braided hair shifts, a golden curl breaking out and shimmering in the sunlight like a gilded beam of morning dawnlight.

“Orchid… I… I need your help.”

For a moment, she paused, a sharp intake of breath as though preparing to laugh. At last, the Crossborn turned, tears shimmering in those molten sapphire depths known as eyes, ones which reflected the gloriously blazing sky above. “You killed her, didn’t you, Godkiller?” There was no anger in her voice, only a shaky sadness and grief that did nothing to yield Chaos’s own self-shame at breaking her promise to Centross and causing so much pain to this innocent spirit, no matter how strange or creepy they might be.

There was no need to ask which goddess she meant, which deity Chaos had slain which should yet still be alive.

“Yeah.” The word was nothing more than a breath against the open sky, a mere whisper of a memory, and yet it brought a single tear trailing down Orchid’s face as they slowly closed their eyes, their entire body seeming to fold in on itself. “I… I’m sorry.” It felt so strange, to apologize for killing a god, and yet it simultaneously seemed as though… as though I wasn’t enough, like blocking a flash flood with a stick.

“I suspected,” Orchid said, turning and staring out over the horizon. “I felt it, in my bones, in the void- I felt the shockwave, but… some stupid, stupid part of me hoped… thought maybe… maybe she wasn’t dead. I was so, so stupid- I should’ve convinced her to stay, should’ve gone with her, even if it meant…” Her face turned towards Chaos, but the eyes stared straight through her, as though they were made of glass. “What do you know of Crossborns, Chaos?”

The Sheith’ora blinked, surprised, although not only at the way Orchid had switched topics. This was the first time it had been ‘Chaos’, just ‘Chaos’. Not ‘Chaos Eprosidin’, not ‘Sheith’ora’, not ‘Godkiller’. ‘Chaos.’ It was nice, in a way, if the context wasn’t so sad, or the change in subject tone so abrupt. “Not too much,” they admitted. “I mean, I’ve read stories and scrolls, but… not a lot. I know they’re hated by the gods for some reason, and usually end up killed.”

Orchid nodded. “You’re right. They do fear us.” She sighed, biting her lip as she methodically pulled the petals off of one of her orchids. Every time one of the shimmering azure petals was plucked, a new one grew near-immediately. The rocky ground slowly became covered with the delicate, crimped blues and pale purples. Chaos stood in silence, waiting for the Crossborn to speak. “Alright, Chaos,” she said after a long moment. “I think… I think it’s time you knew the truth.”

“I used to hate my fathers for what they did. I found it unfair and foolish that I should be blamed for their wrongdoings. I never understood how powerful love could be. I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t let myself become affected by it in the same way. If only I had known what I stupid thing it is to make a promise I couldn’t keep.

“They managed to hide my existence from the gods for a while, calling upon the help of their fellow spirits of air and sky and earth. They lived here, on this mountain, which was once covered with plants and trees and pierced the sky with its peak. Sky spirits often came and fraternized with the spirits of this world, which is how they met in the first place. They all managed to erase the idea that I ever existed, hid me from the eyes of the deities. I loved those years of my life, those times where we were together. I never understood why, exactly, I had to hide but… perhaps it would have been best if I had hidden forever.” She swallowed.

“They found me,” Orchid whispered. “The gods. In retribution for hiding me, for keeping me secret…” The Crossborn gestured around her. “Well, I already told you what this place used to be. They killed every last spirit here, destroyed the plants and decimated the life within the clouds you admired earlier. There’s no life here. They killed everyone- including my fathers. A place that was so full of sound and sight and laughter and…. Life- it’s just… gone. All because of… me.”

She trailed her hands along the fallen orchid petals. “They were going to kill me. The gods wanted me dead. I begged them, begged them, not to kill the others, but… they didn’t listen. They murdered them in front of me. I… I wanted to die. I wished with all my might that I would crumple into dust, in that moment. And they... They told me that I was a mistake, that I should not be allowed to live. They were going to kill me swiftly, as a small mercy, that that was all I would ever receive from them and that I should be grateful for even that. They stood there, around me, on top of this burned, blasted, decimated mountain, prepared to wipe my existence from the land.”

“Anderian was the one who saved me. She told them to reconsider. At the time, I wanted nothing more than to die, but she… she convinced them to instead curse me, as a few other Crossborns have been. They did. They cursed me and left me here, prepared to let the humans hunt me down for sport and to capture me and stare at me like some oddity. And Anderian came back, again. I yelled at her, cried, sobbed, threw things at her, threatened to kill her. She just… stood there. Quietly. Waited for me to finish. And, when I did, she offered me yet another gift. She disguised me, called upon her friend and fellow god Perix to place an illusion on me so I could look however I desired. There was a catch- Perix’s illusion was an area-based one, meaning that if I stepped out of its influence, I would lose it, and everyone would see what the gods had done to me.”

“So, for nearly… gods, what has it been- two centuries now? I’ve been here, unable to leave, trapped and alone. Anderian sometimes calls to me mentally, a simple check in- we’ve… become romantically involved, I suppose. I have not seen her in a long time, but I know that she feels the same way I do. I had one other visitor, a god named Aphrien.” Orchid looked up sharply as Chaos sucked in a breath. “You know of them?”

“Kinda. They’re a bit of a myth among the Sheith’ora- a god of death with its lifeforce connected to its twin, Achrien, a god of life, and vice versa. They vanished about fifteen years ago, both of them, without a trace. We sent out two of our own to hunt for them a few years ago, but nothing. We don’t know if they’re still alive,” Chaos explained, still stuck on the idea of a kind Anderian capable of love and a helpful Perix.

The Crossborn nodded. “They visited me once, hurried and rushed. They gave me a single gift: the gift of Fate. I’ve mentioned it to you before, I believe. Fate, the pagan god who still so many believe in, was modeled after one god who really existed. It was nothing much, a single ability, a fraction of the consciousness of the once-great god Aether, deity of Fate and the Far-Future. Clairvoyance, in a way- more a curse than a blessing, sometimes.

“I can see all the futures, Chaos. Futures where you die. Futures where you live. Futures where you win, killing the gods. Futures where you fail and all suffer because of it. I see the futures where you turn aside from your mission, letting the rage in your heart cool and the gods go on with their reigns, unchecked, unstopped, unquestioned. I see the paths where you die on the way back from this mountain. I see futures where you live forever.

“You see, Chaos, every person’s choices lead to a multitude of futures. When you make a choice, it closes off a branch of that timeline forever. There are infinite futures, branching and intertwining and doubling back like threads in a loom. I can see a trillion futures for each person, and every single one is unpredictable because humans are chaotic and unhinged. You know this. I am only meant to watch, Chaos. I once tried to steer the path of Fate from this mountain I am stuck on, but I only made things worse. I cannot affect what happens, I should not affect what happens. I fear what will happen if I do.

“So, I leave you with a single thread of truth: The gods fear my kind because we are the lives that should’ve never been born, the product of a union which never should’ve happened. They cannot control us.

“I told you, once, my dear Sheith’ora, that we are the same. I meant that in more ways than one. They cannot control you unless you let them. I want you to remember this. In all the timelines I see, the ones where I do not say this to you or the paths where you forget… those are dark ones. You must remember it. They cannot control us.”

Chapter Text

“Is this him?” The question hazily floated through the thick fog of his brain, punctured the cloud of oblivion he was dying in and routing away the time-blindness he was experiencing.

His blurry view of something deeply blue pressed against something endlessly gray was blocked, partially, by a patch of glowing white and gray, fringed with peach and a blue to rival the two-toned world he stared at. “Yes.”

“Has he been like this the whole time?”

“No- at the beginning, he was still lucid, still able to see things around him and talk, but he did not remember anything- or, rather, remembered too much -and seemed… off. It is hard to explain, but he would do things almost mindlessly, as though he was beginning to lose the clear-thinking he still had. He did not recognize faces properly, either. Soon after I first talked to him, he went into this trance-like state you see now.”

A low buzzing filled his left ear for a moment before abating. “Fascinating. And what caused this, again?”

“…my killing of Anderian triggered the set up for it, but the actual state was, according to Galahad, caused by one of the goddess’s main attendants, Haley, whispering something into his ear.”

“Haley?!?” The first of the two voices grew shrill and pitched high, and he was given the strangest feeling that he should know what emotion that displayed, but in the tangled disparity of his mind, all he could grasp at was a fleeting glimpse of the word in his mind before it was gone.

“You know her?” This voice, as well, changed in tone. The tone rose slightly, the words becoming longer and ending with a curl of… curiosity? He could not remember if that was what it was to be called.

“…Let us stick to the matter at hand.” The voice which had gone so high was now low and strained, the breaths behind it quick. Something smooth and whisper-cold brushed the side of his face as lightly as a moth coming to a rest. “Stand back, Chaos.”

He could hear an obliging shuffle of boots against stone and a slow, deep inhale from Orchid before light began to build around the edges of his blurred vision, piling on top of itself until it toppled over into the middle and his view became consumed by an obscuring white flash which lingered on and on and on, laced with shimmering threads of a startling azure in the endless luminescence. The light scraped over his mind, clawed its way through this body and dragging itself down through his bones. It grated like diamond dust or sand, each particle serrated edges scraping across his body. It did not hurt, necessarily- it was more of a… almost a cleansing wave, in a way.

“He is not well mentally. That much is obvious by his physical state, but his mind… It is like fracturing glass, a web of shards which keep breaking and shattering and creating more fragments to break and shatter. The light within it is fading.” The snake-skin smooth fingers left his head and temples, leaving his skin there tingling with the memory of the abrasive light which had now faded from his being.

“Aecieana spoke of the water in his blood, you speak of the light within his mind. What are spirits capable of? Why the difference between you?”

“Your friend Aecieana is a Ish’kalan, no?” A pause, as though waiting for a non-verbal agreement. “Spirits of the earth and the water deal with the flesh and blood of creatures, the solidity of their bodies. They see the water present within the being of the human, the tangible elements. Vin’thaena, those of the heavens and the celestial objects, they practice in the unseen parts of the human. Without light, mortals go insane. An absence of it infects their brains light a sickness affects the body, but a surplus can just as well damage them. They see the mind, the state of their thoughts and emotions, things which are not tangible and yet still just as important to the overall health of an individual. Such is why Crossborns are not welcomed widely. We hold sway and influence over all parts of a human’s self, thus becoming something almost god-like.”

“So, you can heal him?”

“I… I can try. I will remind you, I am not in the practice of using such abilities on others, so my skills are not precise and the product will not be perfect. Having the power does not give you the ability to wield it wisely. He will most likely still have memory gaps in places or a jumbled timeline of events. His emotions could run high and varied for quite some time, and he may not always have the reactions you might expect. He… he will not be the same. His mind will remain weak, far more easily susceptible to attacks on his psyche.”

“…It is better than his current state. I trust you enough to let you at least try.”

“Very well.” Those fingers were reaching towards him again, smoothly pale and cold to the touch. Where they traced his skin, spirals of ice followed, sinking in and in and in and in, and for a moment he saw a thousand memories he had never seen, and there the light was in him and around him and beyond him and-

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He is floating in the sun.

Around him flows liquid luminescence so brilliant it should scorch his eyes and burn his flesh, and yet to him it seems a gentle dawn light, soft and billowing like waves of supernovic silk. Weightless, he levitates within it, hung like a star in the ocean, suspended in an endless sea of luminosity.

Slowly, he inhales, lets the light fill his lungs like water. It does not burn nor suffocate him, merely drifts in and out like bright air. As he exhales the light changes, fluctuates into a violent amethyst color that swirls into the pale gold expanse and vanishes into it like frozen tears into snow. Suspended in that gilded purple he feels… calm. Soothed. As if he is dreaming, although the question chased its tail into his mind of ‘is this a nightmare or a daydream, if it be anything at all?’

Tentatively, he reaches out with his foot and cautiously places it down, seeking a hold for it. There is something there in the mist, a platform of gilded marble which materializes from beneath his feet and coalesces from the depths of the fog. It is a foot in diameter, the edges blurring into the rest of the clouds save for the sharply defined surface closest to him. As he presses his weight onto it more fully, a shimmer of wine-dark color ripples throughout it, and he cannot help but feel distinctly violated, almost, as though he has just been scraped by the grating light of… what? What light? Desperately, he grasps for the fleeting memory he just held in his mind, but it is gone now, the ghostly edges of it lingering onwards. There is a distinct impression of a coarse light, but he cannot remember anything beyond that bare bone of remembrance.

Another step emerges as he shifted his weight and stepped out again, this one just higher than the last but the spitting image of the first. He climbs onwards, the floating stones vanishing back into curls of opalescent gold when his feet leave them. He only thinks to count the number of steps once a few minutes have passed and the fog appears no different than when he began. Strangely, the digits leave his mind so easily, slip through the cracks and disappear.

He has just begun again for what could be the hundredth or third time when his next step lands on not a mere floating stair, but a platform of intricately inlaid marble which stretches on and on in the mist, infinitely expanding and framed by squared-off walls of the rolling fog. This, too, shimmers purple as he stands upon it, but the color does not vanish as before. Instead, it grows and reflects and multiplies until it shoots towards what he can only guess as the center of the platform. There is a raised dais, there, tiered and flaunted with edges and curving etches deep into the stone. Pure azure orbs hover haphazardly scattered throughout the layers, their soft humming noises providing gentle ambiance. A few flit upwards towards a platform which floats just above the rest, upon which rests a long, curved table.

It stretches around in a crescent moon shape, silver upon ancient honey-tinted wood with panels carved with depictions of scenes he can only guess at, confused and jumbled to his mind. He can make no sense of them in any form- what might be a detailed hand connects to a flat two-dimensional square and fuses to a wisp of silvered feather which floats just above a twisted shape of sharp edges and smooth curves. He gazes wonderingly at the panels and misses the shape sitting at the table, and it is only when she turns her head, looks down at him with an air of disapproving distain that he sees her.

She is tall, from what he can see, not quite the towering monoliths his mind believes he has seen before had been but easily rising above his own height. Her skin is a pale blue-gray like the sky before a storm, smooth and unblemished save for long twisting ropes of golden scars which snake around her forearms and ripple into her shoulders. Her eyes are startling blue like morning light on the ocean, sometimes a color so warm and pale it is practically gold, other times as dark as the shifting abyss. The same golden scars fang around those fluid eyes, tooth-like and gilded. A sleeveless black bodysuit, halter-style around her neck, is visible beneath gauzy white partial skirt around her legs, a slit on both sides and embroidered with scarlet. The same shade of vermilion made the translucent arm pieces, held in place with golden circlets around her forearms which blend with the scars and melt into long black gloves which glimmered with embedded shards of glass. Above one raised hand hangs a ball of amethyst light as reflective as a mirror.

“Godless,” she hisses, and the sound is like a thousand snakes preparing to strike, piercing through his soul. Slowly, she pushes the floating slab of the same gold-embedded marble she sits upon away from the table, rising to her full towering height and staring down at him. One of the blue lights zips around to hover right behind her shoulder, and he is given the distinct impression it is staring at him in concerned pity. “I’ve never taken an en’jyment to perceiving yir category here in my tososoke, although it is practically unavoidable given yir conclusion to forsake yir up-tops.”

Her words are a curious blend of lengthy strings of letters smashed into short contractions and slangs which his mind finds difficult to follow, spiced with foreign languages unfamiliar to him, her sentences ending with a higher tone and the end of every vowel clipped and sharp. Behind her hum long blue and gold wings like riled wasps, the sharp fragmented appearance of glass flickering in and out of refracting sharp beams of light. He has the distinct impression of a spider’s legs twitching, waiting to consume its prey.

“Apologies, but I’m… not entirely sure who you are…” He attempts to edge backwards, his foot touching only air as he realizes that the stairs he climbed upon are gone, the edge of the platform simply a sheer drop into the clouds of gilded iridescence.

“Of course- yir kind rarely do. I’m not surprised, in any capacity. You turn your backs on the sheith’ain, so why should you recognize one now?” They step towards him, wedge-heels clicking against the marble platform as she slowly leans down, the blue light above her shoulder bathing her face in an eerie pale glow. With a slow, fluid movement, she reaches out and grips the edges of his face with her gloves and the sharp edges of the shards of glass within the cloth cut into his skin. He stifles a wince at the quick whisper of pain.

“‘Sheith’ain’,” he whispers, staring up at her face. “I know that word. I… It is familiar. What language is… that from?” The goddess merely gives him a small, fridged smile before digging the fingers of her glove deeper into his skin. This time, he cries out, closing his eyes for a brief moment and twitching backwards. As he does, he catches the faintest flicker of blue light and a whiff of what smells like lightning bef-

“You can’t kill me, you stupid mortal. I’m a god. The only people who could kill me are dead- I, I murdered them. And if you- if you think I’m going to apologize for riding the world of that filth, you can go to hell, you HUMAN.”

“What?” he cries, confused as he stares at the goddess, who is merely watching him. “What was that- what- what wa- what did you do to me?!?”

“Not a human, sheith’ain.”

“Stop it-”

“I am not doing anything, Godless. Yir own mind is doing op for you.” She drops his face, thin lines from the glass leaking trails of blood. “Although… speak to me, Isish’ke- do you know what is occurring with yir physical self at this very moment?”

“My… my physical self? I thought this was my physical self.”

“Nye, nye, nye. You, like all the rest of yir mortal race, appear here when I call you from the brink of mental oblivion. I, Soraza, Goddess of the Memories both lost to time and still with us, offer you a choice. Yir monik self is still in the real world, nothing more than an empty shell that those around you are trying to fill. What happens here determines whether or not their… unconventional attempts at fixing you work.”

“…You mean that I’m… not really here, that I’m just my… my what, my soul? My mental energy?”

“Something like that, yes. And you can either return to yir body as a full human ro’os, or you can return to it as nothing more than a blabbering fool among fools. All you have to do, Godless, is choose.”

“Choose… choose what, exactly?”

She closes her eyes and he feels himself physically relax for the first time. “I am a god unlike the others. Whereas they simply continue to exist as-now, I am a changing goddess. My true self must take on the memories of other beings in order to survive, culminate them and gather them to myself to replace the fading ones within. You see, Godless, I cannot forget lo-ridan-riska of my own memories, but they are too torn and tattered by the stains of godhood that I require… distractions, you might say, in order to remain sane. Memories I can trick my mind into thinking are my own. Memories from other sources.

“So you are that source. You can either go back to your body as you were, a mindless shell, or you can let me view your memories, find the ones which broke yir mind in the first place, take a few of the very worst to survive, and send you home in one piece.”

Those eyes flicker open again, constantly shifting and changing like the shadows of leaves blown by the wind. “First off, thank you for not switching languages every two seconds there. Was much easier to follow. Second… So, I have to let you take whatever memories you want so you can… feed off of them like a Lonely One, but in exchange I get to go back home with gaps in my memory?”

“No- I take the worst memories you have ever experienced. The ones with the most hurt and guilt and pain- those are what were infecting yir brain. And si, there will be gaps in yir memory, but they will be small. Yir mental timeline-of-events might be affected as well, but it will all be fixed with time.”

“But… my memories are coming back on their own already, we saw that. You said you weren’t doing anything, which means my brain- on its own -was able to give me back my memories because you triggered them with a word. So, what’s to say that won’t happen again?”

The goddess- Soraza, he thought she had said her name was -narrows their eyes at him, her wings buzzing faster, now, more angrily. Spider, snake, wasp- how ironic it was that something prized as far above mortal unrefinement was only capable of being depicted as an animalistic beast? “Stop being difficult,” was all she rasped out, fingers flexing rapidly as though claws beyond the visible spectrum lay there.

“Difficult? I’M being DIFFICULT?” His tone was rising far higher than it probably should, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to leave, wanted to simply remember everything and not have to spend another gods-forsaken moment around this creature masquerading as a helpful deity. “Well, let me just be a bit more DIFFICULT for a second and let you know that no, I don’t think I will be giving you ANY of my memories.”

She sighed, long and hard, those hateful, ever-changing eyes vanishing behind storm gray eyelids and long, black eyelashes dipping, but for a pause they were the only things moving in a goddess gone eerily still. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.” The same sharded hands reached out at unearthly speeds, this time not holding him in place but instead pushing him back, away, off of the platform. He fell, flailing with a scream he was not proud of as the clouds of lavender, blush, and rose-gold flew past him, no longer buoying him up as in the beginning.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more, the idea of more of those vanishing platforms coalescing beneath his head or the thought that he might simply fall forever, on and on and on until he gave into Soraza’s demand. Outside of those two options, however, a third appeared as he plunged onwards. The wind, or what passed as wind in that strange place, whistled through his ears, at first nothing more than blank white noise but changing and shifting into howling laced with words he didn’t recognize as jagged and tearing as the glass within Soraza’s gloves. They burst through his brain, scraping abrasively over every memory and thought and dream he’d ever known and even the many, many moments which had passed into a forgetful oblivion. They flickered by, reminiscent of the deity’s humming waspish wings in a cascade of flash and momentary rounds of emotions so raw and strong he wanted to cry out, but the same wind which filled his mind simply tossed away his shouts.

On and on the biting gale in his mind went, shredding out memories to claw out the ones around them like blocks of ice, those moments gone forever. It was like trying to remember a dream after one has long awoken, a vague outline of something that was no longer his and never truly had been. They all belonged to Soraza, he realized with a dull sort of realization and acceptance. Every idea, every thought, it was all hers. Always had been. He’d only never been close enough to her to have them reclaim them as their own, never given them a reason to take them back.

And he fell out of those twisting, beautiful clouds and into somewhere where the light was too needle-bright and there was nothing left but pain.

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Centross’s eyes opened.

It wasn’t a slow opening, or a snapping open in terror or agony, but as if he had simply… woken up. As though, all at once, his soul had returned to his body and he had had a reason to get up.

The view he stared into was so strangely familiar he felt for a brief pause as though he was still falling through the empty vastness they called the sky. Sheer azure spread out before him from the edge of one blessed horizon to the other, a dome of sapphire and opal to crown the glory of the world. Gentle puffs of white were layered far below in a carpet of cloud and storm, sprawling out and yet infinitely small compared to the expanse of the heavens that hollowed out his eyes and climbed into his brain.

Someone was shaking him, he realized. Hands gripped his shoulders like iron casts, hard and unyielding and yet trembling, the metal of those fingers vibrating with emotion. That pale hand was connected to an arm, sheathed under green and black and armor, the arm to a shoulder and the shoulder to the torso and the torso to the face of someone he knew, a familiar stranger. She was short, thin and gaunt with the weathered look of someone who had not truly rested in a long time. Scrapes along their forearms and hands where the leather bracers had not covered had scabbed over in thin, dark lines, in some places overlapping the faded pale scars of wounds long healed. It was the eyes, though, that caught his attention- a deep brown like the oceans, black in loops to the core and yet brimming with tears like the jeweled blood of gods.

He tried to speak, tried to get anything out past dry, cracked lips which only rasped in hoarse whispers when he tried to speak, scratchy and parched from the days of unuse. Wetting his tongue, his mouth, he moved them once more, wincing at the blood which spawned from the thin fractures of his breaking lips and forcing words out of a throat the gods had tried to silence. “Chaos?”

It was quiet, broken and so unfamiliar to his ears which had craved anything but the muted hum of a mind clouded with guilt, but the sound it pulled from the figure before him, the sob as though the entire ocean was trying to push its way through her eyes… it was far more than he had deserved to be cried out for him. Far more than he was worthy of. Far more than he dares to feel earning of. His mind is a clouded blur of strangled timelines and broken memories misarranged and cluttered, but the emotions which bubble from them are clear and unforgettable, the feeling of trust, of friendship, of something almost resembling what he would describe as a familial bond.

“You know me?” She choked out, trembling all over, hands shaking as she raised on to her mouth. More blood was caked over their fingers, seemingly having come from the knuckles skinned as though having been scrapped roughly against bark or stone and they had simply never bothered to clean it off.

“I… I think so?” He tried to muster a smile to give her, but merely triggered a fresh trickle of blood from his mouth. “I mean, everything’s so… jumbled, we- we traveled together… right? We killed something?” Chaos winced slightly at that and he frowned. “What? What happened?”

They hesitated before closing their mouth and shaking their head. “It… it can wait until we’re back down the mountain. Orchi-” Chaos rose, turning to the side as if expecting to see someone, a name already on their lips before she paused and frowned. “Oh… She’s… Nevermind. I do suppose she has earned her peace and silence… she may welcome a presence for a time, but I do suppose the experience is strange after centuries of lonely isolation.” Her tone is thoughtful, musing, and wholly not meant to be directed to anyone in particular, least of all Centross. It vaguely reminds him of something he’s sure he is supposed to remember with the oddest of prickling sensations across his mind, something he’s sure he’ll come to find familiar in the coming weeks, given the state of… everything, he supposes.

And then Chaos turns back towards him, the tentatively hopeful pull of her mouth something he could almost call a smile beginning to hesitantly spread. “Centross.” It’s just his name. It’s just a name that has been said by so many across the infinite span of time. It’s just a name that has been shared and passed throughout the world and the epochs it goes through. It’s just a name.

But for some reason, when she says it, it feel like home.