Danadrian never had dreams. Not for as long as he could remember. It may be a byproduct of his empty mind that lacked so much that others had. Maybe it was a part of his punishment. Perhaps it was simply an aspect of the Angelica he had forgotten.

  Either way, Danadrian never had dreams.

  Right?

  “It isn’t the first time he has tried to call out to it. Why now did he receive an answer?”

  “Because I decided it should be so. You question this choice?”

  “Of course not, your reverence.”

  Two voices were speaking, male and female. At least, he thought they were speaking. Was this a dream? He wasn’t sure. Everything felt so… fuzzy and out of focus.

  “He follows one of them. I hardly see how such an act is deserving of the Light.”

  “That is inconsequential, at least in this regard. He decisions are of minimal importance anyway.”

  “And yet we still watch him.”

  “As it should be.”

  Their voices drifted away, and sleep took hold once more. If it had ever loosened its grip to begin with.

  And when Danadrian woke again, he was sullen and unhappy for a moment.

  He never had dreams.

  .   .   .

  An Angelica of Mayare.

  Alleria stared down at the man, no, being of the Light itself. They were named Harbingers of the Dawn and defenders of the Dusk, patrons of the Lightbringers, and servants of one of the highest goddesses. Her mother had called them protectors of the downtrodden, warriors and judges, who dispensed justice and aid in equal measure. She had been unapologetic in calling them both beautiful and terrifying, a paradox that didn’t seem to bother her.

  Her daughter continued to stare at the unconscious man and resisted the urge to sniff.

  With all due respect, he doesn’t look the part.

  There was no golden hair or eyes shining as bright as Andwelm’s sun; his was brown and messy, and his eyes were only slightly yellow. Rather pale, really. And while his skill with the blade was beyond a doubt impressive, his tendency to collapse after taking serious wounds that could have been avoided was less so. Hardly the characteristics of a true immortal being.

  And how he slept. It was honestly impressive. Neither the bouncing of the cart along the road nor the worry and impending threat of Demon Hunters could force him to wake. She’d begun to worry that he might’ve died with how still he was lying. What was going on inside that head of his? She could probably roll him into a corner between the few crates, and he wouldn’t even stir, let alone wake.

  What if he was lying to us?

  She remembered his declaration, the emotion on his face, the tiny bolt of light that had pierced armour, skin, and bone. Anger and pride, plain as day. She’d seen the same looks on Demons, House Prydin in particular. Usually when they were showing off their latest creations and had to defend them against scrutiny.

  That couldn’t have been a lie, could it? Either that, or he was a madman. Did she have a madman sleeping next to her? Surely not.

  But then again, there was something missing, wasn’t there?

  She pressed a finger to her lip and shifted forward, then winced. The wound on her chest, now a thin scar running from between her breasts and down to her stomach, still ached with lingering pain. She could’ve healed it, scar and all, but she wanted to remain conscious. Even now, her energy was sapping away. Her tunic had been shredded beyond what was appropriate, so she was wearing a spare Velandus had. It was too large for her, and every time a gust of wind came in, it threatened to fly-

  Fly? It clicked.

  Wings!

  Angelica had wings. Sure, some stories said they had multiple arms as well, though it was a contested fact and omitted from others, but wings were a staple of Angelica. The Angelica of Mayare were winged beings.

  She squinted down at Danadrian. She’d never seen wings on him, even when stitching and trying to heal his many wounds quite a few times now, but maybe had them hidden? Some form of magic exclusive to them? Or if not directly magic, then some innately magical functionality of their body that allowed them to better disguise themselves amongst mortals. Maybe they got in the way when entering buildings, so they could compress them into their bodies? It would make sense, in a twisted way.

  Now her curiosity was stoked. She leaned down next to him, briefly considered her actions, before jabbing him in the cheek.

  No movement, not even a flinch or murmur. Her hypothesis was right, and he really was out colder than a dead man.

  She rolled him over. He really wasn’t as heavy as she’d assumed, despite his height. He reminded her of Florainians, who were taller than the Moren and closer to the Carathiliar on average. That meant he was only a few centimetres taller than her, she reckoned.

  Last time she’d seen his back, checking for cuts and wounds, there’d been nothing of note. But then again, she hadn’t been actively searching for evidence, had she?

  Emboldened by her curiosity, she carefully pulled at his tunic, now almost covered in more holes than not. She rolled it up to the back of his neck and stared at his back.

  No wings. No real sign of them either. If they were concealed by magic, she was probably missing it anyway, but she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointment. His back was relatively normal, bar a few scars and scabbed-over cuts. The healer they had hired had been quite efficient, for all it had been a cheap and rushed job.

  Except…

  She frowned. Running down from his nape to the lower half of his spine was a pair of rather nasty scars, which most assuredly had not been healed. No self-respecting healer would’ve left such marks untouched without trying.

  She leaned closer and found that the skin almost bent outward from them. She had little experience with grievous wounds, but even then, she could tell that they were deep, and would cause a lot, maybe even a crippling, amount of pain. If they didn’t already kill you when you received it. And yet Danadrian seemed relatively unaffected by them. It was in an odd place. Did he even realise they were there?

  Danadrian shot up, wide eyes glancing from side to side. When they landed on her, she maintained a calm expression, placing her hands on her lap.

  “Good morning.”

  He looked from her to his pulled-up tunic, back to her. His cheeks grew a little red as he pulled it back down.

  “I-uh yes, good morning, Alleria. May I ask what you were doing?”

  “Nothing really.” She shifted back until she was leaning against the side of the cart. “I expected you to be out cold for a while longer.”

  “I might’ve been. Wait, how long was I…?”

  She peeked out a cut in the tarp, “Well, it's almost daybreak, you slept through all of yesterday and then most of the night.” She looked back at him, “You’re a deep sleeper. Barely flinched or stirred each time we rode over a misshapen rock or whatnot.”

  “I imagine I was exhausted. The Talradians?”

  “No sign of them, at least none that I’ve seen. Velandus has been riding us nonstop since Fordain, mostly along the Great Southern Road but sometimes onto and off of trails in the forest to try and throw the scent off. Regardless, we’ve been heading north. I’ve kept watch all night.”

  “The entire night? Is Velandus okay? Not to insinuate anything but-”

  “-but he’s an old man.” She grinned, “He’ll probably want to nap for three days, but he’s of hardy stock.” She tried to laugh, but in truth, she was probably as exhausted as he’d been. Healing her wounds was one thing, and no amount of food could make up for that much fatigue, but staying up on lookout duty drained her even more.

  “How are you? I saw that cut across your chest, that can’t have been an easy-”

  She was half tempted to flip her top up to show him, but she just waved his comment aside, “It’s healed, don’t worry. I’m a Demon, remember?” She waved at her horns, which were uncovered, “We’re far harder to kill than Humans.”

  He reached for his small bag, wincing slightly as he did, “Cuts aren’t too deep.” He muttered, “Light preserve me.”

  “I tried to bandage you up to the best of my abilities.”

  “Thank you. You have some experience, then?”

  She winced, “Not really. When you can heal your wounds naturally, given time and effort, it’s common to dabble with bandages or stitches. Nonetheless, I’ve been blessed with a Human companion, so I inevitably picked some stuff up. In passing.”

  “Yes well, if it wasn’t for that, I would probably be a bleeding mess.”

  “Actually…” She pointed at his chest, “Most of your wounds weren’t too deep. They looked, and probably felt, worse than they were. So why you passed it out is a mystery to me, because it certainly wasn’t from blood loss.”

  He frowned and looked down at his hand. “It was the first time I’ve been able to call upon the Light. Perhaps some sort of backlash?” He looked back up at her, “I’m sorry, I have not been entirely honest with you.”

  “You mean-”

  “I am an Angelica.”

  The look she saw behind his eyes unnerved her because there rested both resolve and certainty that even her strongest relatives could not hope to fake.

  “You…” She swallowed, “You don’t have any wings.”

  His expression softened to surprise. He blinked, “You know of my kind?”

  “My-my mother would tell me stories when I was a child, decades ago. So I know a little bit. You have scars on your back, nasty ones that haven’t been healed, but no wings.” She leaned onto her arm, “And with the utmost respect, in general, you aren’t exactly a spitting image of them.”

  His frown returned, “What did you expect us to look like?”

  “Lighter skin, definitely with wings, probably made of white feathers. Some stories say you have multiple arms, the same as your goddess.” She wrinkled her nose, “And a little less dirty.”

  “Do you know how expensive soap is here? Frankly speaking, it is daylight robbery.” He snapped back, face a little red.

  “You’re an Angelica, aren’t you? I didn’t realise you were bound by the mortal forces of economics.”

  He looked away, leaving the question unanswered.

  “And if you are an Angelica, which is what you claim, then explain why I’ve had to carry and tend to your wounds twice now. You bleed as any of the mortal races do, but you’re not mortal.”

  No answer.

  “And Brakenus? He has skill and has spent much of his life perfecting the arts of war and combat, but when faced against an Angelica of Mayare? No Demon Hunter could best her servants, that much I am certain. That was a good show of Light Magic, but wizards could do far better.”

  She saw his face grow redder, though it didn’t seem to be embarrassment anymore. No, from the look in his eyes to the way his brow had furrowed, he was getting angry.

  “Do you doubt my claims?”

  She crossed her arms. “Of course, I doubt your claims, you sound mad. You don’t see me going around claiming to be a Flendar or a mythical shade of Loron.”

  The stories she was told were as fresh in her mind as they were the day she’d first heard them. She could hear the praise her mother had for the defenders of the Light. She’d insisted that their powers and grace were aspirations for anyone, Human or Demon. She could see her, her face smiling down at her as she-

  She snapped out of it, breathing in deeply. That was too much, too much remembering.

  Danadrian was struggling to push himself to his feet, and she could see him wincing as he did, “Though I must suffer distrust and scorn, surrounded by the Dark with people who worship destruction and Chaos itself, I will not have my truth denied.” His feet were close to buckling beneath him, but he steadied himself against a crate. The cart was beginning to slow down.

  She began to rise as well, waiting for the moment when he inevitably collapsed, “Then answer my questions, Lightbringer. If you are what you say you are, then why is it you suffer the pains of mortality? What are you even doing here?”

  His face was filled with rage then, “Because I am FALLEN.”

  The cart ground to an immediate halt, the horse panting and kicking up dirt outside. Their eyes locked in a stare, his pale-yellow eyes filled with indignation and anger. They were far from golden, but in them might be the last vestiges of pride…

  .   .   .

  … and in her amber eyes, he saw only confusion. That was what he thought he saw there, the only emotion he could fathom from the Demon’s unreadable expression. She was looking at him with expectation, trying to find something in him he couldn’t even begin to search for himself. Then, disappointment. He felt the swirling and uncontrolled emotions that he had held onto since he met the Talradians in battle, slip away. His shoulders slouched, and he regretted his tone and the anger he had let out on her.

  But he had said it, spoken into the world the words that gnawed at his Soul. The Fallen Angelica looked down at the Demon, and wished he could have met her expectations.

  “I am Fallen.” He repeated, “Cast out. No longer a member of my order. Do you know what that means?”

  She stared at him, then shook her head.

  “It means that whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find when in me.” It cut him deep to say those words, “I’m sorry, a pale in comparison to the stories.”

  He turned away just as the tarp opened up and Velandus pulled himself in. “Alleria, I’m going to need you to start setting up camp for us.”

  “We’re stopping?”

  “Not all of us can go days on end without sleeping. And once you are done, you’re definitely going to sleep. No arguments about it.”

  Unspoken words passed between them a second before she nodded, “Fine, shouldn’t take too long.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  The Demon began to grab with a wide assortment of tent-related paraphernalia from the corners of the cart before disappearing out the back. Once she had, and the sounds of her footsteps had likewise disappeared, Velandus turned to him.

  “I’m sorry about her. She grew up with certain preconceptions of your kind and, well…” He shook his head, “It isn’t my place to explain, but I doubt there were any ill intentions behind it.”

  “I was too quick to anger. In some ways, I may have been fortunate, in a twisted sense, to have not encountered any well-versed in the legends and myths surrounding my kind. In some ways, she knew much, and yet in others, nothing.”

  “She had expectations, and unfortunately, you didn’t meet them in her eyes.”

  “She’s… not the only one.” He smiled ruefully, “And you are not as surprised as she?”

  “In the moment, perhaps, but I had my suspicions. I’ve had time to mull it over and come to my own conclusions.” He smirked, “How subtle do you believe you’ve been?”

  He thought it over for a moment, “I am guessing not subtle enough, at least in your eyes.”

  He shook his head, “Not at all. You are lucky indeed that you came to a land that actively rejects your stories and the lore of your Goddess. And an old man in a cart has seen his fair share, however.”

  “So you know then what it means to Fall? I was- am an Angelica but cast away from my people.”

  He nodded again, “I do, or I know the basis of it, at least.”

  “Well, that is good then,” the words felt raw in his throat, “because I barely understand it myself.”

  “How much do you know?”

  “Fragments, islands of knowledge dotting the empty sea of my mind. Everything I should know eternally sits on the tip of my tongue, every line of thought eventually trailing off into darkness. From the minute to the important, from the basic to the extreme. I can see no rhyme or rhythm to it. I didn’t even know what a Demon was, nor the name of the very kingdom I found myself in.”

  The words just kept flooding out his mouth as a never-ending tirade. He let every feeling, every painful thought, flow into the waiting ears of the old driver. He didn’t know when the tears started, only that his face had grown wet whilst his voice grew parched. After a moment, Velandus wordlessly handed him a waterskin. He had not spoken or interrupted once. He just listened.

  “…and the Light…” He trailed off, remembering that brief moment of illumination, of triumph as he beheld the Light within the palm of his hand. And he remembered it disappearing from his grasp. “It felt so real, like everything was right again.” He lowered his voice and began to rub at his cheeks, “So tell me, do you have any sage advice to offer? At this point, I would take anything I can get my hands on.”

  He tapped his crooked wooden staff, which at some point he’d picked up, and didn’t immediately reply. He looked him over once, rubbing his chin, opening and closing his mouth a couple times, but still remained silent.

  “… Do you?”

  He tilted his head again before speaking, “What is your plan, Danadrian?”

  “Pardon?”

  “As much as she may act on intuition or emotion at times, Alleria tends to plan everything out in the long term. From what you’ve told me, you don’t seem to follow that philosophy.” He shook his head, “No, bar some few decisions, you’ve been reactive to your circumstances. So, do you have a plan?”

  “… No, no, I don’t think I do.”

  “Well, that’s a good place to start, isn’t it? You Fell for, in your own words, a purpose. Figuring out what that is as a good a plan as any.”

  “It can’t be done as simply as you put it, can it?”

  He smiled, “Of course not. But without your wings, you’re going to have to make do with walking?”

  “Walking?”

  “Of course.” He gestured forward, “To take the next step. That is the crux of it. The only thing you or Alleria, or even I can do is to take the next step, and the next after that. Just keep on moving.”

  He was staring at his hands again, “I thought I had found a way to live in Fordain. I was surviving. Now that that’s gone, I… I feel aimless. There are things I don’t understand, concepts and ideas that are lost to me. How am I supposed to not fear taking another step forward, even if in my heart I know it is the right course?”

  He shook his head, “Of course you’ll be afraid. You are now, I dare say it, mortal, and to be afraid is what makes a mortal tick. It is the last line of motivation that can push even the weariest Souls forward.”

  He walked to the edge of the cart and pushed aside the fabric. Danadrian followed, stumbling to keep his balance, and felt the grass and morning dew under his bare feet again. Velandus pointed a finger behind them, “When you travel, you’re always pausing to see where you’ve been, even if it’s all darkness to you. Alleria, on the other hand, chooses to run forward, never daring to look back. Her eyes are on the horizon.”

  “And you?”

  His wrinkled face continued to smile, “I’ve seen each hill and horizon around us. I’m content to be pulled along by others, to see what they find and pray it’s something beautiful. So, Danadrian-with-no-plan. What do you see over the next hill?”

  He turned and watched the Sun rise as dawn broke.

  .   .   .

  Danadrian found that he actually knew quite a bit when it came to setting up camp. It was surprising, to say the least, but much of what they were doing with the tents and stones to contain a fire came to him naturally. Regardless, Alleria was better than him and far outpaced his sluggish movements. He’d stopped stumbling and no longer needed something to maintain his balance, but his wounds were still slowing him down, so stacking the small stones or holding up a pole was the greatest extent of his usefulness.

  So while he wasn’t engaged in manual labour, he was observing their surroundings.

  His initial observation of the Crynmon Forest turned out to be flawed. He had halfway assumed that it mainly consisted of the same sorts of trees after his foray into it near Fordain, but one quick look now told him how wrong he’d been. The trees here were thicker, though not by much, but definitely seemed to be a different species.

  He chastised himself as he inspected a leaf.

  Did I really think that the entire forest was made up of one type of tree?

  As he bent down on his haunches, he caught a glimpse of Velandus feeding his horse and giving him a bemused expression. He then became keenly aware of how ridiculous he looked inspecting a leaf on the ground.

  He tried not to wander too far from their camp, which was set up in a small clearing not far from the dirt road, and his legs wouldn’t let him move that fast anyway. He still wanted to avoid the chance of getting lost as much as possible.

  There was an elevation to the land he was only now noticing. Sure, he had been aware of the hill Fordain was built on, but had wrongly assumed it to be a unique case. Now he realised that the land the forest rested upon was entirely hilly. Not all large hills that were comparable to mountains, but more like small bumps in the land, you would only notice if you were looking with intent.

  He was on one of those bumps, watching the Sun in the distance, when he turned to look back at the cart and promptly tripped.

  Thankfully, he tripped upward and avoided landing on his face or falling back down where he came. He rubbed his nose and refrained from muttering any vulgar oaths aloud as he tried to see whatever root or pebble had tripped him.

  Looking down, his first glance caught nothing out of the ordinary, no rock or root to be found. Then, after looking closer, he saw an unnatural, artificial flatness to a section of the ground that he’d been walking up. It was a stone, or rather, a slab of stone, roughly the size of his head, and covered by a layer of moss thick enough to be mistaken for grass.

  He began to scrape away the moss with his hand, pushed forward by curiosity. That, and the hopes that the next person to wander around here wouldn’t befall the same fate as him.

  Once peeled away, he stopped and stared. A familiar, greyish-green hue was looking back at him. The stone slab had the same colouring as the hidden room he’d fallen into, which had contained his rusted sword. That had been trapped with blood magic.

  He almost fell back down the hill when he put some distance between the rock and his arms, but there weren’t any bursts of mana or unnatural powers here. It was just a stone, unassuming and ordinary, left to the elements for Ages past, he thought.

  It was a neat find he might mention to Velandus, and he turned around to do just that, when a ray of sunlight passed through the trees and glanced against the stone. And then reflected back into his eye.

  He blinked, rubbed it, then blinked again.

  What in the name of…

  He leaned back down to look the stone over again, and this time something new caught his attention. A tiny, violet thing was stuck into the cracks, barely the size of his thumb.

  “Some sort of glass…?”

  He tried to pull it out with his fingers, but they slipped against it, and a few more attempts left them red and sore. He sucked one, “Well that’s not going to work.”

  While wandering the campsite, Velandus had given him a spare hunting knife to carry. In his own words, the rusted weapon he carried was useless as a blade for the same reason it was useful as a blunt weapon, and he could wholeheartedly agree. If he were jumped by a wild creature or a Talradian, he could defend himself with ease, but it would be embarrassing if he were to fail at cutting away a stray vine or branch that entangled him.

  But apparently that didn’t equate to prying out whatever this was.

  He spent several minutes trying different angles, applying pressure at different points in an attempt to pop it out of the crack, all to no avail.

  He sat back down, panting a little as he rubbed his hands, “I’m starting to think this may not be worth the effort.”

  It really wasn’t. None of this was. He had more important things to be doing, to be considering. Where was he going to go next? What was he even doing here? What was his purpose? Velandus’ words still sat heavily on his mind, and his time could be better spent thinking on those.

  And yet here he sat, attacking a stone.

  “Definitely not meeting anyone’s expectations.”

  He put away the knife that had proved ineffective, and thought on the other option he’d considered, but discarded quickly.

  “Might as well.”

  He walked back to the camp, ignoring the raised eyebrows looking at him, and retrieved his sword. He then trekked back to the stone and rested the tip on the edge of the slab. He wriggled his fingers in preparation, all the while thinking this may be the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done. The rusted edge was almost the size of whatever he was trying to pry out.

  He drew the sword, resting its rusted tip on top of the green slab, and began to wriggle his fingers in preparation. Then, carefully so as not to break it, he tapped the tip of the blade against it.

  Whereupon it proceeded to shoot out like an arrow.

  He gaped as the purple shard flew into the air as if pushed by some force beyond his sight, reaching high enough that he wondered if it might hit the canopy of trees, before it slowed and dropped back down to the earth, once again held due to the force of gravity. His hands snapped up and caught it.

  It was a mana crystal, though smaller than he’d ever expected one to be. He found, after gently pressing against it with his mana, that it still contained some mana stores, though obviously they were minimal due to its size.

  But how did I…

  He looked back up, then down at the crystal again. No, there was no chance it had been by his own force. Could it? He’d barely touched it.

  He began to fiddle with it as he walked back to camp. It didn’t make any sense why someone would embed it in that stone, for Light only knew how long. Had there, originally, been some purpose for it, or was it simply for decoration? He imagined that if there were more of its size, it might have looked quite dazzling.

  “What’ve you got there?”

  Alleria’s back was to him as she rummaged around in a sack beside her tent. Neither of them had said a word to each other.

  He relayed the short story of how he’d acquired the tiny mana crystal, and after inspecting it once, she handed it back to him, “Your guess is as good as mine. I can’t even feel what’s going on inside there.”

  “Right, of course.”

  They stood there in silence for another minute or two. He wasn’t sure what Alleria was doing, but he was shuffling his feet in the dirt. Eventually, he coughed into his hand.

  “Listen-”

  “Right, I-” She turned.

  They both stood there, looking awkwardly at one another, before he lowered his head. “I shouldn’t have reacted as harshly as I did. I apologise.”

  “I- yes I didn’t consider your feelings on the matter. It was… inconsiderate of me. I’m sorry. I didn’t know enough about your kind to make those assumptions.”

  He sat down beside her, “You know more than anyone else I’ve met, and you’re not entirely wrong. We do have wings, and we were made with six arms, though we can sometimes make them seem like less.”

  She sat up a little, “I heard a myth once that you only have one eye, like a cyclops. Is that true?”

  “Not entirely. Since the Light gathers around us more often than with mortals, it can often cause distortion effects, which is probably what you’re referring to. I’ll admit, I never looked in the mirror to confirm it.” He frowned, “At least, I assume I didn’t.”

  Alleria seemed to notice the shift in his expression because when she spoke again, it was in a softer voice, “What does it mean to be Fallen?”

  “It-” He swallowed, “-It means that I forsook my oaths and betrayed the trust of Mayare and my fellow Angelica. For it, I was stripped of all immortality, all powers, and my own memories. What I have left are only fragments of my past self.”

  “And you don’t know what you did?”

  “Not even a hint.” He smirked, “Fate has dealt me a dreadful hand.”

  He heard a low chuckle behind him, and Velandus sat down across from them. “How much of your lore on the Gods do you remember, Danadrian?”

  “Bits and pieces. I thought I knew it all, but clearly I seem to be lacking.”

  The old man chuckled, tapping his staff against the soil, “Well then, what do you know about the God of Time and the Goddess of Prophecy?”

  Alleria scoffed, “Please, not that story again.”

  “It’s not just a story, it’s a truth, Alleria, and just because I’ve told you it a couple times-”

  She laughed, managing to make air quotes with her fingers, “A couple times.” She looked back at Danadrian, “Try not to get too wrapped up in his tales. I’d bet gold that he embellishes them.”

  “How dare- they are not tales. I speak only the truth.” He replied, crossing his arms.

  “Mhm. Right, whatever you say, old man.”

  “I know Kal Trathar and Kel Rahtart.” Danadrian interjected, “All of the Gods save for Slathir are known to me, but I’m unsure what story you’re referring to?”

  “That’s certainly a surprise. I believe it’s one of, if not their most well-known stories. It is at least their most defining”

  Velandus cleared his throat, and when he opened it again, Danadrian listened to a story he hadn’t heard before, but that he felt he knew, nonetheless.

  .   .   .

  In a nameless land, atop a mountain that long ago eroded into dust, two gods argued with one another. Or rather, the younger of the two argued, and was met with the stone wall of determination that was the older.

  “I am telling you, what you’re doing could be catastrophic in scope. You were warned against this by more than one of our kin, many of them wiser than I.”

  The younger was Loron, the God of Knowledge, still a fledgling coming to maturity in his role. But even then, his arms and legs were covered with shifting words written in black ink. It was said that if you were fortunate enough to read them up close, you would see that each letter was made up of sentences themselves, and those sentences of even smaller letters, down to a minuscule level that only gods could perceive.

  “I have considered their words, as I have yours, but find myself unconvinced. I speak of an end to conflicts, warfare, even strife and immortal death. So I ask you, what would you not risk to achieve such a feat?”

  So said the God of Time, Kal Trathar, then still appearing young and confident. His clothing was fabulous, coloured bronze and cyan, both colours he saw as beautiful. He smiled with a wrinkleless face, uncaring and humoured, and in his arms he held an enormous hourglass.

  The hourglass was the first of its kind, and all others that came after it, which was to say all other hourglasses, were fakes and copies that attempted to mimic its majesty. With it, he could see and experience each and every point in time that had passed, simply by turning it on its side. He tilted it to his left, anticlockwise, and saw everything from the minute Creation brought him into being, and with him Time itself, to seconds before this very conversation.

  And now he was considering a far bolder experiment.

  “But the risks. None of us knows what may happen if you do this. I hold the corpus of mortal and immortal knowledge, and I have no idea what might occur. Would you not reconsider until this has been properly thought through?”

  He spoke true, for etched into his very being was such knowledge, infinite and ever-changing. Even as they spoke, new lines and letters were being applied to his skin, a common occurrence that he barely noticed now.

  But the other god was barely listening.

  “Never again will I be scoffed at by others. With this achievement, I will take my place as one of the most, if not the most, revered and lauded God. They will speak of this moment for Ages to come until the ending of all things, that much I am certain.”

  Such was the hubris of the God of Time, great enough to match any and all around him. He made even the haughtiest take a step back and reconsider their words, for truly, theirs were nothing compared to his.

  And the core of it all? It was the crux of his very being in those times.

  Curiosity. The desire to know all that had happened and all that may happen. Was he not the God of All Time? Why should he fear or hesitate when given the opportunity?

  “It is so simple.” He muttered, “Counterclockwise to see the past, clockwise to look towards the future. Let fate itself beware, for there will be one amongst us who looks at its heart and knows its plans for this world.”

  “But the consequences-”

  “I have to know, and damn be any consequences. It is my power, why should I fear it?”

  He tightened his grip on the hourglass and, with effort, pushed it to the side. He tilted it right, flipping it close to ninety degrees, and then his bronze eyes widened.

  Loron froze, unable to stop him from seeing what he did. And then he saw his mentor and caregiver’s eyes water. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he croaked out but a word.

  “Exquisite.”

  The sky broke. The Sun and Moons were blotted out, then shattered to pieces and remade. Rifts split apart the very fabric of reality, and they both felt the presence and knew it was done. Their mother, father, and parents were there, and they knew its wrath.

  Spectral hands, clean cuts of colourless and white, spiralled down to the now-kneeling God of Time. They caressed his face, wiping away the tears that fell from it.

  And then Creation ripped out his eye.

  The scream of a god filled the air, the guttural and painful ripping could be heard across Andwelm. The others stopped everything they were doing and turned to stare, some in macabre amusement, others in interest, but most in horror. It is said that in the realm of Mariath, flowers aplenty died that day.

  Blood splattered the ground, as the god wept and screamed, all the while feeling at the hole that was now barren and empty. Thoughts of hubris and glory became foreign to him then.

  The hands turned, and Loron felt his heart skip a beat for the first time in his existence. But no price was exacted on him. Instead, the hands simply stroked his arm and wiped away part of the writings on them. A bit of knowledge kept away from its God.

  Kal Trathar never remembered what he saw. The memories were taken from him along with his eye, an equal price for a breach of his powers. And ever after, considered a paltry cost for what might have been done. The God of Time was now also and only the God of the Past, for the future was beyond his reach and domain.

  Creation was not done, however.

  The bronze eye of the weeping god was twisted, stretched, and expanded. It glowed with power only known to her, and from it was birthed something new. Something unexpected, but required, it seemed.

  Thus was fashioned a new god, youngest of them in those days. She became the only being to hold knowledge of the future, and behold the presumed plan that fate had in store for the world. She perceived, supposedly, Creation’s grand design for existence in its fullest, and she was given a name.

  Kel Rahtart. God of Fate and Prophecy.

  .   .   .

  Velandus finished speaking and took a long drink from his waterskin. Alleria rolled her eyes, but nonetheless seemed thoroughly entertained by his story, even if she seemed to have heard it many times before.

  Danadrian, however, rubbed his forehead, “What… message are you trying to sell me here?”

  “Message?”

  “That my luck could be worse? That fate is not mine to strive for or against, and I should simply let it take me where it pleases? What does it mean?”

  The old man tilted his head, “It’s a true tale, and true tales never have intended messages. Not until someone appends their own to it, and even then, that is subjective.”

  “So what did you intend by telling me this?

  “Besides educating you on that which you lost?”

  “Yes.”

  His soft smile returned as he rose, dusting the dirt off his pants, “There is only one living being in Andwelm who knows the true meanings of fate and the future. We may strive against it or work for it, but in the end, we will never know which one it is. Rather, we must instead live our small and short lives with meaning. Sometimes, it is okay to forget about the grand scheme of the Gods, because it might mean little to us.”

  “And finding that meaning, that purpose?”

  “It will come, as all things do, with time. Kel Rahtart will see to that, I am sure.”

  He shuffled off to his tent. Danadrian began to speak with Alleria again, answering her questions as honestly as he could and without the anger or frustration he’d once held. She, for her part, asked respectfully, trying better to hide her preconceptions or disappointment.

  All the while, he thought on the words given to him.

  Meaning…