In the frozen north of Qunira, atop Mount Aldrig of the Kalders, a young man, humanoid with skin sky blue in tone, kneels in quiet contemplation and reverence before an altar. His pupilless, white eyes strain against a steady stream of tears that freeze against his cheeks before falling to the ground. Geirmund Elendr, a samsaran dressed in heavy robes woven from iivlar silk, utters small prayers to himself in his quarters.

“Joren, I hope, wherever you are, that you got to see more of the world than just this place.” A smile forms at the corners of his mouth. “Fuck you for dying, though,” he laughs. “I’m so fucking bored now.”

Geirmund wipes his frozen tears away and stands. He, a medium-sized person in a room built for someone quite large, climbs up onto his bed and lies there for a moment, trying to remember what he was supposed to do today. As the memory reaches him, he rockets up and gasps. The mail! I’m late! Geirmund jumps out of his gargantuan, cozy bed, and straps his boots on under his robes. He opens his door, which is a smaller, makeshift cutout of the sixteen-foot door that belonged to the home’s previous owner, and is immediately greeted by a gust of frigid wind. No snow falls in Falsheimr today, but tall drifts of white powder cover the ground. It is only the footsteps of Geirmund’s giant neighbors that provide him with a suitable path from his home to the post office.

Geirmund’s late panic subsides as he realizes the lack of urgency required to deliver mail in Falsheimr. In a town of a few hundred jotunborn, not many letters are sent back and forth (for one giantkin is merely a few steps from another at any given time). However, the jotunborn of Falsheimr maintain a comfortable level of civility: more official documents, such as missives from the council or matters concerning the town’s trade economy, require a more official delivery. Furthermore, giant-sized pieces of paper are one of the only objects in this town that can be carried by Geirmund, so it seems he was the perfect man for the job.

Geirmund approaches the post office, which is more accurately a small (against the typical jotunborn home) room that has been annexed to the wooden hut of Frygg Schønning, a member of Falsheimr’s ruling council. She, tasked with supervising Geirmund and watching for another one of his “outbursts,” finds the job quite boring compared to her normal councilwoman duties. As such, she does not acknowledge the young man as he enters. Geirmund, accustomed to this silent treatment, quietly snatches his satchel off of the wall and fills it with the four large envelopes on Frygg’s desk. He turns to regard his supervisor before he leaves but, seeing her preoccupied with meticulously removing dust from her workspace, decides against it. He reads the intended recipient on the first envelope he pulls out of the satchel, Sven Holmsten, and sighs. To the tavern I go.

Geirmund trudges through a few hundred feet of deep snow, keeping his steps confined within large, previously-made jotunborn footprints, before reaching the double front doors to Falsheimr’s one and only tavern. Constructed four years ago by Sven Holmsten, this nameless bar provides jotunborn with a rustic yet comfortable drinking experience. Sven himself has taken great pleasure in fermenting Falsheimr’s traditional, pastoral crops into alcohol. In the four hundred-odd years since the great migration of the jotunborn from their now-destroyed home plane into Qunira, only recently has one of their number discovered something truly fun to do that does not require work: drinking.

Geirmund knocks hard against the door, hoping that his small, gloved hands are capable of producing enough sound to alert Sven to his presence. In the past, he has waited quite a long time for Sven to hear his gentle rapping against the thick evergreen wood of the building. Luckily, Geirmund hears Sven’s heavy footfalls shuffle across the floor to the door. Sven, a hulking, fifteen-foot-tall, blueskinned jotunborn, opens the door and looks confused for a moment before noticing Geirmund below his eye level.

“Geirmund! Good day, how are you?” Sven asks.

“I’m alright,” Geirmund replies. “I had a late start to my day. I have something for you.”

“Oh no, another bill?” Sven’s brow furrows and his smile droops into a frown. “Come inside. I need a drink.”

“Sven, I can’t drink right now. I’m at work.”

“Well, I can. Also, you don’t care about delivering mail enough for it to really matter. How many envelopes are still in your bag?”

Geirmund shrugs. “Four.” Sven scoffs and wordlessly raises an eyebrow in response. “Okay, fine,” Geirmund concedes. “One drink. I can only drink so much alcohol made from root vegetables.”

Sven rolls his eyes and gestures for Geirmund to enter. Geirmund obliges, walking past the giant man through rows of empty tables that Geirmund would need a ladder to access. When the two men arrive at the bar, Sven gently lifts Geirmund and sets him atop the bar, where he sits cross-legged.

“So, what will it be, potato-based or turnip-based?” asks Sven, setting two wooden steins in front of him: one appropriately jotunborn-scaled, and one that has been specifically whittled down in the rare case that Falsheimr’s only medium-sized denizen were to ever visit for a drink.

“Potato,” Geirmund replies, his mind immediately focusing on thoughts of his dearly departed friend’s bitter-but-oddly-comforting potato tea. “And not too much, either. I want to keep my wits about me.”

“Whatever you say, little guy,” Sven teases. “Now, tell me. Why am I receiving another bill?”

“If I’ve said this once, I’ve said it a thousand times. I’m just the messenger,” Geirmund sighs. “I think they just give me busy work these days. None of the mail actually seems to matter.”

“Yeah, of course they do,” replies the jotunborn man. “They want to make sure you don’t freak the fuck out again.” Sven lets a quiet, for a jotunborn, giggle escape his lips as he curses.

Geirmund avoids eye contact. “Yeah. Probably.”

Sven, noticing Geirmund’s slight change in demeanor, attempts to lighten the mood. “Honestly, I think they could find something more engaging for you to do. Lifting heavy shit isn’t the only task the rest of us do around here.” His left brow raises. “How’s your cooking?”

Geirmund grins. “I make a mean potato pancake. Joren taught me a few years ago.”

“Wow, Joren. I haven’t thought about him in quite a while,” admits Sven. Geirmund, who has thought about Joren every day since his death, is taken aback. Sven continues. “I’m sure he had a fantastic recipe. That man knew his way around potatoes. Shame he didn’t get to try this alcohol.”

“From what I remember, his breath certainly smelled like he was working on a drink just like this one,” says Geirmund, taking a sip of the earthy, sharp liquor. The aftertaste is different than he remembers. “Is there ginger in this?”

“Just a tad,” answers Sven. “Although, for your proportions, it may be too strong.”

“It’s actually really good.” Geirmund can feel himself becoming tipsy, his inhibitions lowering. “Thanks for the drink. I’d like to return the favor sometime. Maybe with some potato pancakes?” The subtle flirt exits Geirmund’s mouth before he has the chance to stop it. He always found Sven at least slightly handsome. Perhaps his kind words mixed with the liquor are tipping the scales in his favor.

Sven pauses, recognizing Geirmund’s dalliance. His blue cheeks flush with purple as he smiles. “That sounds nice. If they’re truly as delicious as you say, we can see about getting you a different job around here.” Sven glances at the unopened envelope and his smile vanishes. “There’s no reason someone cannot simply walk across the village to deliver this to me. What a waste of resources.”

Geirmund laughs. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Some time later, after about an hour more of lighthearted banter, Sven leads Geirmund back to the front door of the tavern. Now quite intoxicated, Geirmund clutches his satchel in his right hand, determined to finish his task despite his inebriation. The samsaran bids Sven farewell and watches as the large door slams shut in front of him before turning to face the town proper. As he turns, he catches sight of something in the sky. Geirmund freezes in his tracks.

လ

Within a building constructed from deep red bricks with black masonry and wrought-iron accents, its aesthetic perhaps too obviously betraying its infernal origins, a young ikeshti woman dressed in guards vestments in similar shades of black and red eats lunch. Nisha Tikesh-Sângiuri, a high-ranking guard within the Jahannam branch of the Inferknights, shovels a nigh-tasteless mixture of turkey and rice into her fanged maw with a jagged, fiendish-looking fork. She sits rigid and wordless as she stares into the middle distance, avoiding conversation with her cadet. The cadet in question, a younger ysoki man named Lancer, obnoxiously munches on a sandwich and watches Nisha with eyes wide, waiting for her to say something. After waiting for quite some time, he decides to break the silence himself.

“Are you excited for today’s mission?” Lancer asks. Nisha winces; in an office filled with gross incompetence, the manner in which her subordinate’s voice grates against her inner eardrums tends to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back and sends her over the edge. She takes a deep breath before responding, composing herself.

“Remind me what today’s mission is, and why it’s so exciting?” Nisha’s long, forked tongue protrudes from her mouth with every fricative.

Lancer, blissfully unaware of his superior’s disdain, continues enthusiastically. “Did you read the briefing that Captain Thalia gave us this morning?”

“Why in Hell would I read that?” Nisha snarls. “I knew you’d read it. Thalia’s too wordy. I’ll read her briefings when she actually makes them brief.”

Lancer shrugs. “I just do what I’m told.”

Nisha chuckles. “I know you do, Lancer.” Skylight from outside the window glints off of her front fangs and her tinted glasses conceal an egregiously long roll of her eyes. “Tell me the details of the briefing.”

“Gotcha. Three months ago, Clan Marrow-Kuzim hired the Inferknights for some weird extermination job. Do you remember that?”

Nisha thinks for a moment. “No, actually. I don’t.” Nisha combs through all of the strange, menial, non-crime-related tasks for which the Marrow-Kuzim matriarchs constantly contract the Inferknights and cannot remember any exterminations. “What was so weird about it?”

“It was just so secretive. In their missive, the Marrow-Kuzims didn’t even describe what was in their estate that needed to be removed. They said they’d explain more ‘on-site’.” Lancer forms air quotes with his claws.

“Well? What happened? What was it?” Nisha asks intently. For the first time in months, Lancer has her undivided attention.

“I don’t know,” says Lancer. Nisha sighs and relaxes her shoulders, disappointed. He continues. “The guy who went to the estate got canned right after.”

Nisha sits forward again. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember? Jacques Crow?”

The image of the middle-aged human man known simply as “Crow” within the unit appears in Nisha’s mind. “Yeah. I kinda forgot about him.”

“Crow went on the mission, returned, and then was fired like a week later,” Lancer shrugs.

Nisha’s mind races. “That’s very weird.”

“Yeah, it is,” Lancer agrees. “Anyway, Marrow-Kuzim never paid. They’re supposed to provide extra compensation when we clean their toilets for them or whatever the fuck else. Captain wants us to go there and inquire about it face-to-face, because it seems they’re dodging the letters we’ve been sending.”

“Fuck them,” replies Nisha. She remembers how the matriarch Jade Marrow watched on complacently as she was nearly beaten to death a decade ago. She has not looked at a Marrow-Kuzim since, refusing to participate in their busy work regardless of the extra pay.

“It’s whatever,” says Lancer. “But, I feel like we never get a real mission, so this is interesting at least. Finally a day where our instructions aren’t to ‘keep scum off the streets’.” Lancer gestures to a metal scraper attached to his belt and smiles, attempting to incite a laugh from Nisha but instead receiving a wordless blink.

Nisha starts again. “I’d hardly call debt collection a real mission, but it seems there’s more to it than Thalia let on. I’m stuck on Crow getting fired so out of the blue. Why was he let go?”

“No idea,” Lancer replies.

“Let’s go check his file,” Nisha suggests. “I’m sure there's a record somewhere.”

“We don’t have clearance for—”

“Lancer,” Nisha interrupts, “I don’t give a fuck. At all.” She starts toward the door of the breakroom.

“Fair enough,” Lancer concedes, knowing not to question her when she’s this driven about something. He, partially responsible for the fire in her eyes and feeling particularly proud of himself for it, shuffles behind her out of the room and into the hallway.

Nisha approaches the Inferknights’ bookkeeper, an amurrun named Kaarl, and loudly interrupts their lunch. “Excuse me, Kaarl?”

Kaarl, startled, nearly chokes on their meal as they look up from their desk. They swallow a mouthful of what appears to be pasta and tuna salad before responding. “Oh! Good afternoon, Nisha. How can I help you?”

“I’m interested in some information in one of your files back there. Do you mind pulling up Jacques Crow?” Nisha tosses Kaarl a fanged grin.

Kaarl, who was caught by Nisha discreetly smoking flayleaf at their desk two weeks prior, eagerly obliges. They search through their filing cabinet for a minute before turning back to Nisha and Lancer. “I’m sorry, but it’s not here. Not where it’s supposed to be, anyway.”

Nisha’s smile fades. “What? Do you not keep files for people who have been fired?”

“No, we definitely do. Stephson’s folder is still here,” Kaarl replies.

Nisha recalls Sherm Stephson, a halfling who was forcefully removed from the Inferknights after threatening Ser Fenck, a brutish oaf of an Inferknight with a penchant for tormenting Jahannam’s poor and homeless, with a knife a year prior. She silently wishes he had stayed. “Oh. So, Crow’s has just been—,” Nisha pauses, “removed?”

Kaarl shrugs. “It would seem so. Perhaps Captain Thalia needed it for something?”

“Maybe. Thanks for looking for me. Don’t tell anyone I asked you for this,” Nisha scowls.

“It’ll be our secret,” Kaarl replies with wide eyes, attempting to silently leverage this favor against the secret Nisha is keeping on their behalf. Nisha nods.

“Come on, Lancer,” Nisha beckons. “Let's get ready to head out.”

“Aren’t you gonna ask the captain about Crow?” Lancer asks.

Nisha waits until the two have left Kaarl’s earshot before replying. “Absolutely not. I don’t trust her. Something’s fishy here, and if Thalia is involved, I’d rather not let her know that we’re onto her.” She watches Lancer to make sure he understands. When he nods, she continues. “You and I are going straight to Marrow-Kuzim to get some answers.”

“Oh, boy,” Lancer sighs. “This may be less exciting than I had anticipated.”

Nisha scoffs. “You’ve got it backward, Lancer. This has turned from a simple, boring task to a full-blown investigation. This is what we join this force to do.” She raises her eyebrow and smirks.

“I would have been fine with debt collection, but you’re the marshal.”

“You’re damned right I am,” Nisha remarks as the two don the rest of their Inferknight vestments. Nisha grabs her nine-tailed scourge and cracks it, the raucous, explosive sound filling the room and startling Lancer to attention. He, holding his ysoki-sized spear in one hand and his shield in the other, nods in Nisha’s direction and the two set out toward the Marrow-Kuzim estate.

As Nisha and Lancer traverse the dark Jahannam streets, they witness the city’s typical goings-on: Inferknights causing civil unrest, pestering locals over victimless acts and even committing petty crimes themselves. All of these officers need to die, Nisha thinks to herself. Every single one.

Nisha’s stomach begins to churn. Suddenly, she feels faint, nauseous, paranoid. A feeling she has only experienced once before, ten years ago to the exact day, creeps over her. She falls to her knees and vomits, refusing to look up into the sky for fear of what she may see.

လ

Four people, each dressed in different variations of the same simple, drab, lightweight outfit, sit at a square-shaped dining table. The air smells heavily of saltwater and fish, and the sound of the gentle lapping of waves against the shore enters through an open window. Winona, an anxious-looking tengu woman fit with heavy bags under her eyes and a cowlick of feathers due to static, and her far more gruff father, Polo, have welcomed both of their coworkers, respectively named Markus and Oceanus, into their home for a delicious seaside lunch. Markus, the only human in the bunch, tries his best to follow the tengu custom of swallowing raw anchovies whole without swallowing to mixed success. Winona watches on in amusement.

Polo, in the middle of proposing a toast, addresses his daughter directly. “Today, the eighteenth day of Arodus in the year 642O, marks the tenth anniversary of the most interesting day of my life.” In one hand, he raises a glass of white wine in her direction, and in the other, his hand has been replaced by a polished wooden prosthetic. Winona winces, still ashamed of the events that took place ten years ago. Polo notices her reaction and continues. “Winona, no need to be upset. I’m proud of my progress! Plus, without the need for physical therapy, I wouldn’t have met Oceanus.” He pats his partner on the back and the two men smile at one another.

“I know, dad,” Winona starts. “I just don’t understand why we have to keep bringing it up all the time.”

“Well, Winona,” explains Polo, “You’ve made great progress as well. You’ve grown into an impressive young woman, and you’re much more in control of your—”

“Yes, I see, thank you,” interrupts Winona. She, unable to keep her embarrassment at bay, starts to feel static on the back of her neck.

Markus, who has been in Winona’s company far more frequently than her own father for the last decade, immediately notices his friend’s curse beginning to flare up. He reflexively puts his hand on her shoulder and feels a slight shock against his fingertips. She calms under his palm. “I agree,” Markus adds. “It’s been a great ten years! I’m happy that Winona and I can work together every day. We’re having a lot of fun over at the outpost.”

Winona nods in agreement as her static dies down. She quietly reminisces on how long it’s been and how much has changed. She wishes that she and Markus had more to show for the last decade, though. As long as the Wayfinders’ Guild continues to deny their formal requests to reenter the Ramzigani and explore its secrets, Winona worries that she will never receive the closure she desires.

Oceanus speaks up. “I’m also glad your father and I started fishing together. I was hopelessly lonely after Farrah moved away. Silver linings and all that.” Winona smiles but says nothing. This is the first year that Oceanus has joined to celebrate this occasion.

“What else do we want to do today?” asks Polo. “I know we do lunch every year, but ten years feels special.” His brow raises in Winona’s direction. “How about some time in the canoes? Maybe some fishing?”

Winona begins to panic. She has not been on the water since her father lost his hand. “Dad, I—”

“I know, I know. You haven’t been out with us in a while. You used to love being out on the water!” Polo pleads. Winona doesn’t remember loving the water; rather, she tolerated the banal act of fishing for the sake of appeasing her father. In truth, her last pleasant fishing memories involve her mother.

“Winona, can we please?” Markus begs. “I’ve always wanted to go fishing.”

Winona glances at the human, confused. “You’ve never been fishing? You’ve lived here for ten years.”

“I have spent every single day by your side for the last decade. Of course I’ve never been fishing. I’m from Heret anyways. We only have small creeks back home.” Markus folds his hands in desperate anticipation.

Winona shrugs. “I guess we can go fishing for a little while,” she concedes. She makes eye contact with her father. “Not for too long, okay? I’m worried I’ll get seasick.”

“That’s fine, Winona,” Polo replies. He looks at Markus. “Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t been fishing? Oceanus and I would have taken you ages ago.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Polo,” Markus apologizes. “I wanted to, but I didn’t want to upset Winona or make things awkward.” Winona’s embarrassment sets back in. Am I that volatile?

“I understand. No worries, buddy. Let’s get going!” Polo is unable to hide his excitement. Winona and Markus watch as Oceanus helps Polo right himself. As the four leave, Markus signals Winona to fall back and walk behind Polo and Oceanus.

“Winona, can I ask you a question?” asks Markus.

“Uh, yeah?” replies Winona. He’s acting weird.

“Is your dad—,” Markus hushes his voice to a whisper. “Is your dad gay?”

“What?” Winona gasps, dumbfounded. “No, he’s not gay. He married my mom.”

“Look at them, Winona. Look at him and Oceanus. Oceanus’ hand has been on the small of your father’s back since we left your house.”

Winona squints, analyzing the two tengu men in front of her. They have been incredibly close lately, she ponders. Could they be more than friends?

“I don’t know, Markus,” Winona says. “They’ve known each other forever, since before I was born. Sure, they got much closer after the accident—”

“And after Oceanus’ wife, what, left him? Moved away from Lehiri?”

“You need to mind your own business,” Winona scolds. “Neither of us need to know if my dad is gay.”

“Winona, I’m so fucking bored here. I haven’t taken a real field note in three months. This is the only research worth doing right now,” Markus laughs. “Plus, I’m literally gay. I think I know about these types of things. Are you not gay too?”

Winona stops in her tracks. She had never really thought about it. After all, the only person she has ever been close with was Wrayne, and she’s gone now. Memories of Wrayne flash across Winona’s mental landscape, from the day they met until the last time Winona saw her: bleeding from the head and unconscious. Winona shakes the thought from her mind and shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Polo leads the other three toward the shed by the dock. Markus and Oceanus each grab a canoe, while Polo and Winona hold the oars and fishing rods. After a few minutes, all four are comfortably in their canoes: Polo and Oceanus share one, while Winona and Markus sit together in the other. Winona watches intently as Oceanus helps Polo situate his fishing rod using the implement that was built into the prosthetic by the Wayfinders’ Guild. Wow, Oceanus really does care about my dad, she thinks. Were they falling in love this whole time, and I didn’t even notice?

Markus, who has read lots of books about fishing, casts his line without a hitch. Winona assumes her typical position at the bow of the canoe and sits quietly. She never enjoyed actually catching fish; she would always prefer to watch. She basks in the nostalgia of the moment: the breeze smells slightly different on the water than it does from the beach. Deep down, she missed this. As Markus catches his first fish, a plump-looking tuna, Winona settles down, comfortable. Maybe this is okay after all.

Winona lies back in her seat, fitting the edges of the canoe perfectly against her shoulders. She closes her eyes for a moment, allowing the gentle rocking of the dinghy to lull her into a trance. When her eyes open, she freezes, and tears begin to fall as she trembles.

လ

Elsewhere, three companions traverse the dark, decaying Iverstri Forest. Einar the hunter, his mastiff Antea, and a young halfling girl named Nell are engulfed by silence as they forge a path through vine and thorn: birds and insects alike have ceased in their calls, for there is nothing within the Ivestri about which to sing. The only sound that can be heard is the occasional howl of wind through hollow, dead trees and the crunching of leaves underfoot.

Einar, leading the charge, swings his spear in front of him to clear branches out of the way. He follows an acrid, metallic scent on the wind: blood and viscera stretched thin across time. Behind him, the halfling child steps on a thorn and yelps.

“Ow! Einar, you’re not clearing the brush low enough!” Nell cries. The skin around her ankles is torn and punctured; dirt clogs her wounds.

“Ride on Antea,” the huntsman replies. Einar does not turn to face Nell; his gaze is narrowly focused on the tracks left behind by his prey. He inspects trunk after trunk, seeing visions of claw marks and blood splatters through the ages where the Beast has wrought its destruction. He presses forward.

Nell, now riding the black mastiff, enters Einar’s peripheral vision from the right. She gazes at him with childlike impatience. “Can we stop soon?” she pleads. “I’m getting sleepy. I need a nap.”

“Maybe,” Einar responds. He pauses for a moment as the three turn around a bend. Nell shrieks at the sight of a disemboweled deer, beheaded and bisected parallel to its spine. Einar holds his place, halting Antea’s movement with a stiff extension of his arm. He slowly inches forward toward the carnage, checking the area for other signs of danger before inviting Antea and Nell to follow. After a moment, he gestures in their direction and Antea proceeds behind her master. Nell clings onto the mastiff’s ruff.

Einar kneels down, his brow furrowed in analysis of the scene before him. From just behind him, he hears Nell ask, “Did the Beast do this?”

He nods. “I think so, Nell.”

“I can smell something,” Nell adds. “Something’s different about the way this deer smells. We’ve killed deer before and this is different.”

Einar purses his lips and brings his left hand to his face, massaging his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“It smells like fire.”

Einar gets down on all fours and moves closer to the carcass, placing his nose just inches from the open wound. The bridge of his nose elongates slightly as he takes a deep breath. He smells it. Burnt, like whatever tore this deer to shreds did so in such a quick manner that heat was generated and its fur and skin became singed. Upon further visual inspection, Einar notices that the edges of the laceration are black with soot, further confirming his suspicion. He also takes note that all of the deer’s body parts are still present. It’s not hungry, Einar ponders. It’s killing for fun.

Einar stands, becoming bipedal again. “Alright,” he calls to Nell and Antea, “looks like whatever killed this deer was a picky eater. That means it’s dinner time. Nell, set up camp and start a fire.”

“Aye aye, Einar.” Nell begins to unload her bedroll from her pack. Antea begins racing around the small clearing, gathering kindling for a campfire. After every trip, Nell pats Antea on the head and thanks her for her offering.

Einar crouches over the deer’s corpse and begins cutting suitable chunks from its musculature, maintaining caution and avoiding the cauterized pieces. He also removes several of the creature’s internal organs. He pauses, however, when he overhears Nell reciting some sort of short incantation:

Caelyss guide me,

Caelyss light the way,

Caelyss spark the flame to keep me warm another day.

The young girl repeats the limerick at a hushed whisper three or four more times before small flames leave her fingertips and light the kindling. After a moment, the flames catch, and the campfire burns bright. Nell throws her arms above her head in a celebratory gesture and begins to jump up and down. “I did it! Einar, I did it!”

Einar, pretending to not have noticed this feat of magic, turns to face Nell. “What did you do?”

“I prayed to Caelyss and it worked!” Nell exclaims. “It’s only worked one other time.”

“Did you cast a spell?” asks Einar, still claiming to be oblivious. “Who is Caelyss?”

“You—” Nell pauses, “you don’t know who Caelyss is? I thought that you’ve lived here forever.”

“Well, not forever,” Einar half-lies. “Just a long time.”

“I still think you should know who Caelyss is,” Nell replies. “Don’t worry, I can teach you.”

Einar nods. How does she know Caelyss? he wonders. I haven’t heard from her in years.

“So, the Ivestri Forest has lots of spirits,” Nell starts. “The first, and my personal favorite, is Caelyss. She’s the spirit of the caverns below, but she also has a way with fire, since fire helps guide you through the darkness.” She fiddles with a small rock with a pictogram of a flame etched into it. “She’s who I prayed to tonight. She doesn’t always answer, but she’s awesome!

“The other ones are cool too. I think there are five in total. There’s Hin-Jin, to whom I pray when I can smell a storm coming. I always feel protected during storms as long as I pray to Hin-Jin in time. Madann, the spirit of the Ivestri’s creatures, is actually who I had tried to communicate with right before I met you and Antea.” Nell gestures at the mastiff, who currently lies on her side, digesting the deer’s raw organs. “I really wanted a pet.

“Ura,” Nell continues, “is—or was—the spirit of the plants. I don’t know where she is, because all of the plants here are either dead or dying. I hope she comes back soon, because I’ve never seen a flower before.” Einar winces at the mention of his sister Ura, as the memory of her dead body, dismembered by the Beast, floods his mind.

“And, last but not least, there is the Wild Man. He doesn’t have an actual name, but he’s cool. I’ve never prayed to him,” Nell concludes, her mouth now full of cooked venison. Einar internally chuckles at the mention of the Wild Man’s nameless nature. Yes I do.

Einar, who does not partake in dinner, ponders Nell’s acute sense of smell and spiritual affinity. He waits until Nell finishes eating before beckoning her. “Come here.”

“Okay!” Nell agrees.

“Close your eyes.” Einar waits a moment. “Are they closed?”

“Yep!”

“Perfect.” Einar places his hands on the halfling’s shoulders and spins her five times. She giggles, amused by the dizziness.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Einar demands.

“They’re still closed. What are you doing?” Nell asks.

“Hush. Point to where the deer is.” Einar holds his breath for a moment while Nell sniffs the air. She turns around and points directly at it, her eyes still closed.

“Did I get it?”

“Yeah, kid. You got it,” Einar admits, exasperated. “Keep ‘em closed, I got one more. Which direction did the Beast flee?”

“Hmm.” Nell, eyes still firmly shut, walks away from Einar to the edge of the clearing. She points out and away from the deer. “That way.”

“Very good, Nell.” Einar, impressed but confused at his traveling companion’s strange abilities, nods. “You can open your eyes now.”

“Thanks, Einar.” Nell beams with pride. She yawns. “I need a nap. Can we stop here for a while?”

“Sure. Just not for too long,” Einar agrees.

As Nell positions her bedroll next to Antea and lays her head down on the mastiff’s stomach, Einar sits on a nearby log, intending to keep watch. After about forty-five minutes of silence, he notices a ray of skylight creep through the trees about seven feet away. He stands up and approaches, his stomach rising into his throat. As Einar steps into the light, he is already keenly aware of what he will see when he looks up through the canopy.

လ

Far below the eastern waves, where skylight no longer reaches, an ancient civilization has been reborn. The New Azark Empire, responsible for the preservation of azarketi culture since its near destruction by the god of war more than six centuries ago, dominates the sea floor of the Easterlies. In the last hundred years, the D’Marrion dynasty has greatly expanded the breadth of New Azark rule throughout the ocean, colonizing independent aquatic communities and installing their own dukes and duchesses in the places of local rulers.

The empire’s capital, Eron, aptly anagrammed from its old Azark name Sef-Ne’or, has become a paragon of modern technological advancement, rivaled only by Polaigne, the city built atop the war god’s corpse in the Westerlies. Unlike the Iron Fortress, however, Eron’s engineers have woven intricate magic into their machinery: perpetual streetlamps glow in soft blue and orange hues, rudimentary personal vehicles with sustainable salt engines transport citizens to and fro, and vent-cores provide much-needed heat in the otherwise frigid depths.

The neighborhoods of Eron vary just about as much as the city’s inhabitants; Eron hosts some of the empire’s richest and poorest denizens simultaneously. In lower-income neighborhoods, property moguls have recently begun buying out the city’s more affordable housing developments and increasing rent rates. One such neighborhood is Dharleri, where rustic, ancient architecture clashes with brutalist copies of the same floor plan arranged in neat rectangular prisms. Within a building that has not yet fallen prey to developers, a green-scaled athamaru rests comfortably atop their bed, gazing at the ceiling of their flat.

Ruvasarn, now known solely by the alias Ruzu, has worked tirelessly over the last decade to reinvent themself: aside from their physical appearance, they now look much older and dress much more normal than they did the last time they lived in Eron. Their anxiety about being discovered as the child that caused a panic at the marketplace exactly ten years ago has kept them inside since their return to the city. However, their need for a steady form of income nudges them towards the outside world once again.

Exiting the two-bedroom apartment’s only bathroom, Ruvasarn’s roommate, a merfolk named Aris, greets them. “Good morning, Ruzu,” she says with a smile. “How are you?”

“I’m alright,” Ruzu replies. “I’m ready to go when you are.” Upon meeting Aris at a local café and mentioning that they needed a job, Aris readily offered them a position working alongside her at her father’s seamobile mechanic garage. Despite the profession’s commission-based nature, Aris, a prodigy with the magitech that keeps Eron’s facilities functioning, has had no problems with making enough money to keep her bills paid in the past. Unfortunately, as Eron’s industrialization escalates, so do rates, and so now she and Ruzu both work to afford the lodging together.

“I’ll be ready in a few,” Aris says while she fixes her wavy, black hair for the day. Her skin, a saturated indigo, gives way to tentacles akin to those of a squid at the waist. Ruzu nods and smiles.

Suddenly, both roommates hear a knock at the door. “Can you get that?” Aris asks, her hands busy affixing some sort of kelp-like hair tie onto her head. Ruvasarn stands and approaches the door. When they open it, their demeanor darkens.

In the hallway is Kebiro, a middle-aged azarketi man who serves as Aris and Ruzu’s landlord. He smiles at Ruzu. “Ah! Good morning, Ruzu. You’re exactly for whom I was looking. Can we speak in the hallway?”

Ruvasarn nods and steps through the threshold, shutting the door behind them. Shit, they think. I’m late on rent again. “What’s up?” they ask, feigning ignorance.

Kebiro’s voice softens. “Ruzu,” he starts, “do you know why I’m here, or do I need to say the awkward thing?” The man, not famous for his confrontation skills, wordlessly begs his tenant for an easy conversation.

“Yes, I know,” Ruzu admits. “I’m late on rent again. I’m sorry, I’m working on it.”

“I understand,” Kebiro condescends. “But, I need more movement from you within the next week. My bills are getting worse as well, and I don’t want to have to sell this place to a developer.” Ruvasarn thinks about how even though their rent has increased recently, it is still considerably lower than other apartments nearby. They wonder how many offers Kebiro has dodged in the last few months. They curse the empire.

“Got it. I’ll figure something out. Thank you.” Ruzu waits for Kebiro to leave before turning to reenter their apartment. When they open the door, they find Aris just on the other side, eavesdropping. She awkwardly smiles.

“What did he say?” Aris inquires, pretending not to already know.

“Isn’t it obvious? I need more money,” Ruzu answers. “I haven’t paid rent yet.” They, humiliated, silently regret their choice to move back to Eron. They long for the deep, archaic coral caverns of what used to be Acropor, even if residing there meant hiding from agents of the New Azarks and living on scraps. Ruvasarn reminds themself of the bigger picture, and of their plans. Soon, this won’t matter anymore, they think. Soon, the empire will fall.

Aris grimaces. “All you need to do is work on more seamobiles. It’s good money, it just takes patience.”

“I know, I’m just not as good at technology as you are. I didn’t grow up around it like you did. I’m not smart like that,” Ruzu laments.

Aris places her hand on Ruzu’s shoulder. “You’re plenty smart enough to do this job. You just need practice.”

“I’m sure practice will help,” Ruzu replies, “but I need money now. Being a half-decent mechanic in two months would be nice, but it doesn’t fix my current problem.” They make eye contact with Aris. “Hear me out: what if, instead of us both taking our own jobs, we work together on a bunch of jobs in rapid succession? Then, we can split the money that way.”

Aris thinks for a moment, her brow furrowed. “Fine,” she reluctantly agrees. “But, it’s going to be a lot more work for me, since you’re so new. Can we split the earnings sixty-forty?”

Ruvasarn nods enthusiastically. “That sounds perfectly reasonable. Thank you.”

“Okay. Let’s get ready to go, I don’t want to be late. Pissing your boss off is so much worse when your own dad is the boss,” Aris jokes. The two laugh together for a moment before disembarking. 

Walking down the stairwell, they enter the complex’s garage. Aris, who drives a compact, dark gray seamobile with no backseat, unlocks the vehicle and they both climb inside. The engine starts, and a soft melodic hum emanates from the dashboard, creating a song. Ruvasarn has always felt amazed by this. How do they get the sound to stay in there? Where does it come from?

Aris drives the seamobile for about fifteen minutes before arriving at the workshop. Parked in the garage are two other vehicles, differing vastly in size. Aris’ father, Melvun, sporting long, thick tentacles in navy blue hues and long, receding white hair tied into a low ponytail, wears a welder’s mask as he fiddles with the larger vehicle’s engine. He calls out to his daughter.

“Afternoon, sweetie!” Melvun exclaims. “This one’s yours!” He gestures to the smaller, albeit rougher-looking seamobile.

“Got any more on deck?” Aris playfully asks. “Ruzu and I are working together today. I think we can get more done and make some more gold that way.”

“I sure do. I think that’s a great idea.” Melvun lifts his mask above his face and embraces Aris. He waves at Ruzu but they do not notice. Instead, Ruvasarn looks high into the open ocean, their mouth aghast at what they now, once again, behold.

လ

Above the waves on the eastern shore of the Quniran continent, a house, standing alone and constructed of old, rusted scrap metal, radiates with happy chatter and the smell of freshly-cooked breakfast. Inside the kitchen, a tall, gold and brass automaton stands over a gas stove and scrambles a large helping of eggs. Sitting at the table, a human woman named Lara Partridge holds her young son, Hunter, on her lap as he examines the intricacies of her prosthetic arm.

“Look at this, Hunter,” Lara says, demonstrating her prosthetic’s internal compartment wherein she stores tools. Each tool that she removes from the chamber is branded with the Wayfinders’ Guild’s signature lemniscate compass. Hunter grabs his mother’s arm and peers inside the compartment.

“It’s like a clock?” Hunter asks, discovering the spring mechanisms within the revolving chamber. “It only spins clockwise.”

Lara’s jaw goes slack, astounded by her son’s brilliance. “Yes, it is just like a clock,” she confirms. “Y’know, for a nine year old, you’re one smart cookie.” Hunter blushes and covers his face in his hands, embarrassed by the positive attention.

“Hey, Hunter,” his older sister, Amethyst, interjects. “If you’re so smart, what’s this?” Amethyst holds her hands six inches apart, parallel to the floor. A moment passes before a faint hum emerges from the space between her palms. All of a sudden, a ball of violet-colored plasma, crackling with electricity, appears seemingly out of thin air. Amethyst’s hair, its hue matching her namesake and that of the energy in her hands, begins to stand on end.

Hunter’s embarrassment quickly turns to frustration. “Amethyst, that’s magic!” he whines. “I don’t know anything about magic!”

“Well,” Amethyst replies smugly, “you’ve got a lot more to learn then, mister smartypants.”

“Amethyst, be nice to your brother.” The children’s father and Lara’s husband, Nyle, enters the room amidst the commotion and grabs a piece of toast off of the dining table. “He’s nine.”

“He’s a genius, he’ll be fine,” Amethyst says as she rolls her eyes. “I was a smart cookie too when I was his age.”

“Yes, you were,” Lara chimes in. “We told you that all the time.”

“Well, I don’t remember,” Amethyst gripes.

“He’s nine, Amethyst. He probably won’t remember this either,” notes Nyle, now sitting across from his wife at the table, his mouth partially full of bread.

“Right,” Amethyst concedes. “Anyway, mom, can I finally come with you to work today?”

Lara reflexively shakes her head. “My love—”

“Mom,” Amethyst interrupts, “I’m eighteen. It wouldn’t even be ‘take your child to work day’ anymore. It’s ‘take your adult offspring to work day’ now.”

“Amethyst, please do not make us rehash this conversation. You are not going to join the Wayfinders’ Guild. It’s too dangerous,” Nyle states. “I mean, look at your mother.”

“Now, wait just a moment, Nyle.” Lara’s brow now furrows in her husband’s direction. “Aside from you kids,” she gestures at Hunter and Amethyst, “this prosthetic is one of the greatest things that has ever happened to me. This piece of tech brought me so much closer to my work. I’m grateful for it every day, even if it was very painful at the time.”

“Honey, a silver lining does not make a horrible tragedy worthwhile,” Nyle remarks.

“Well, in this case, I beg to differ,” Lara replies. Hunter glances back and forth at his parents, uncertain whether he should pick a side or let his parents settle their disagreement alone.

“I’m an adult now,” Amethyst says. “So, if mom goes to work, and I also leave to take a walk and somehow happen upon the Wayfinders’ Guild, is that okay?”

Nyle massages his temples. “I don’t know what to do with you anymore.”

Amethyst lets out an exasperated sigh. “Well, I don’t know what the big problem is! C-DES, what do you think?”

The automaton known as C-DES, now placing a hot plate of scrambled-to-perfection eggs on the table, turns their attention toward the violet-haired girl. “Amethyst, why don’t you come help me out today?” they ask. “I have a few appointments, and I could always use an extra set of hands.”

Amethyst rolls her eyes. “It’s just gonna be Lemonie again.”

“Lemonie’s great!” C-DES lies. “What’s wrong with Lemonie?”

“Lemonie doesn’t actually need help, they’re just obsessed with you.”

“That may be true. That leshy may be more of a construct than I am at this point,” C-DES laughs. “But, that’s beside the point. Why do you want to put yourself in danger so much? Why can’t we just ‘chill out’?” the automaton asks, attempting their best impression of a teenager. “You don’t have to throw your life on the line to do good around here.”

Amethyst shrugs. “I wouldn’t say that—,” she pauses, trying to be as delicate as possible. “Look, mom has been a Wayfinder for so long and she’s only had one bad day.”

“That might be true, but I’d venture to say that it was a spectacularly bad day,” C-DES reasons.

“I know that, I do,” Amethyst says, “but statistically, that’s an outlier.”

C-DES’ internal calculator begins to whir. She has a point, they think. “You know what, Amethyst? You are one smart cookie.”

“Thank you,” Amethyst beams. “Nobody ever tells me that anymore.” She high-fives her automaton friend, and sparks fly from the impact.

Amethyst looks down at her palms. “Wait,” she starts, “can we do something with this today?” She replicates her magical trick from before. “This is all I can do right now, but there has to be more, right?”

C-DES ponders for a moment. They have been searching for an electrical component for a skateboard they have been constructing for Hunter in secret. Maybe she can power a few dormant batteries? “Actually, yes,” they reply. “Your abilities may be useful for something I’m working on.”

“What if it’s connected?” Amethyst asks. “What if whatever this is is the same thing that you run on?”

Lara, who has been simultaneously arguing with Nyle and eavesdropping on her daughter’s conversation, goes silent and turns her head to face Amethyst. She pulls a small, leatherbound journal out of her pocket and furiously scribbles a few notes in it. “Nyle, can you and I finish this conversation in the other room, away from the kids?” she asks. Nyle nods, and the two abscond to their bedroom. C-DES manually adjusts their sound sensors, and is now able to inconspicuously eavesdrop on their conversation from the kitchen.

“I hate to contradict you, my love,” Lara starts, “but Amethyst just made a very salient point. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“What do you mean?” he replies.

“I think I actually should take Amethyst and C-DES to work with me today. The possible connection between whatever gives our daughter her abilities and the force perpetually powering C-DES is very compelling, and I need to talk to Yakk about it.”

“Lara, if anything happens to our daughter—”

“Nyle, I will lose every other limb on my body before Amethyst comes even within an inch of danger.”

“Honey, I know you mean well, but that does not make me feel better. I’m not trying to say that your job isn’t normal, but it invites a lot of danger, and I don’t want Hunter to grow up—”

“I agree to an extent, I do,” Lara pleads. “But, we can’t physically stop Amethyst anymore. She’s an adult. If she went to the outpost today and filled out an application, I wouldn’t even be able to stop Yakk from hiring her. The more we fight it, the more she’s going to want it. Plus, the Wayfinders are good people. They’re working towards a better tomorrow. Bad things happen, but we take care of each other.”

Nyle concedes. “Okay, okay, fine. That makes sense. Can we meet in the middle and tell her she can join you once a week, at least until she’s a little more responsible?”
“Yes, that sounds good to me,” Lara agrees. “I’ll have C-DES come with us on those days too, so we can have an extra set of eyes—or, visual sensors, in their case—on her.”

“That actually does make me feel better,” Nyle teases.

“What, am I not responsible enough on my own?” C-DES cannot determine from Lara’s tone whether or not she is actually angered by Nyle’s attempted joke.

“You’re easily distracted by shiny things and great workings of magic,” Nyle explains. “Our daughter gets that from you. C-DES is probably the most responsible of any of us.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Lara says. The two leave their bedroom and reenter the kitchen. “Good news, Amethyst!” Lara exclaims. “It’s ‘take your adult offspring to work’ day after all!”

Amethyst squeals with delight. “Yay! Thank you, finally!” She darts out of the kitchen and returns moments later with a large backpack. “I already packed all my stuff for the day. I have an astrolabe, an abacus, and a bunch of space junk I found laying around town.”

“Am, I told you not to bring ‘space junk’ into our house without having me check it first,” Lara scolds.

Amethyst shrugs. “Nothing bad happened. Let’s go!” She leaves the house through the front door, followed by Lara and C-DES. The three venture into the orange plains of the Gaskets, a city built in and around the ruins of Qunira’s Divine-era intergalactic hub. The perimeter of the settlement is surrounded by a temperate forest, but the pollutants from millions of tons of technological refuse has rendered the city barren. Now, descendants of the last inhabitants of the Beacon call the Gaskets home, and the Wayfinders’ Guild works tirelessly to restore the derelict spacecraft to its former glory piece by piece.

A few minutes later, C-DES realizes that in the madness of the moment, they forgot their toolkit and the electric skateboard at the Partridge house. As they turn around to hurry back and grab it, they see something familiar in the sky and freeze in their tracks.

လ

In addition to the first of Gorum’s final acts as the god of war, he also used the last fragment of his dying magic to raise his country, aptly named Ironwall, into the air, creating a physical wall of stone that would prevent the neighboring countries of Passion and Gauriþa from attempting to eradicate one another. Presently, the Colossum still stands, and the war god’s legacy lives on: the city-states within the stone and dirt of the Colossum constantly battle one another over borders, committing large-scale acts of violence in the name of conquest. This warmongering mind virus, unfortunately, extends to the top of the wall as well, where two large cities stand bare under skylight: the first, Ghorrat, is a gothic wonderland, replete with tall, shadowy spires and dark metallic accents. The second, Keyll, is a treehouse metropolis, a thickly-wooded paradise for those with proclivities for all things wild.

Within Keyll, a young goblin man in a regal-looking hood made from the hide of a bear swings from branch to branch, failing to conceal his tearful rage. Mugbat Mawclaw runs through his conversation with his older brother, Drofbat, over and over again. How idiotic, attacking Ghorrat with no plan. Where did it go wrong? Was there anything that I could have said differently? Mugbat, heavily distracted by his thoughts, nearly crashes into the trunk of a darkwood tree. Fuck, he thinks. I need to pay attention. I need to talk to Zunza.

The goblin switches direction effortlessly, now heading toward the one place his best friend, Zunza Vinelash, would be at this hour: her workshop. As Mugbat lands in front of the thatched hut, he can already hear the scratches of wood being carved and the soft, subconscious grunts that Zunza is prone to making while hard at work. Mugbat begins speaking without announcing his arrival and before his body passes through the threshold. “He’s going to kill us all.”

Zunza, unfazed by this sudden interruption of her peace, simply gestures to a half-full kettle atop her wood stove. “Tea.”

“There’s tea?” Mugbat asks, knowing that there has never not been tea in Zunza’s workshop.

“Yes. You’re not calm. Drink tea first. I won’t talk to you until you’re calm again.”

Visibly annoyed, Mugbat walks toward the stove and pours himself an incredibly small amount of tea in a ceramic cup. Zunza, still facing her workbench and whittling away, listens intently to ensure that her friend follows her instructions.

“Mugbat, are you trying to anger me?” Zunza questions, clearly not amused by the amount of tea that Mugbat set aside for himself. He wordlessly pours more, nearly filling the cup to the brim. The goblin notices, even from behind, that his friend is now smiling with amusement.

Zunza, a hobgoblin woman with long, brown hair tied back into smaller braids, now turns to face Mugbat. “Start from the beginning and use full sentences.” Mugbat notices how rhythmic her breathing is. She’s come such a long way, he thinks to himself, recalling how quick to anger she was as a child.

Mugbat, concentrating intently on Zunza’s request for full sentences, begins again. “Drofbat wants to march on Ghorrat.” Zunza’s smile fades, but she allows Mugbat to continue. “He’s going to get us all killed.”

Zunza begins tracing a pattern into the palm of her left hand with her right fingernails, focusing all of her energy towards remaining calm. “Okay, when?”

“He told me in a week,” Mugbat replies. “But, honestly, as soon as possible. He seemed pretty eager to get started.”

“Oh my,” Zunza says, dejected. “And you tried to—”

“I said everything I could, Zunza. Every single thing,” Mugbat answers. “Nothing worked. He hates me and he won’t listen to a word I say.”

Zunza, now teary-eyed, looks directly into Mugbat’s eyes. “Am I going to be made to fight again?”

Mugbat breaks eye contact, unable to deliver the next sentence while looking at her. “I don’t think any of us will have a choice.”

“Fuck.”

“Something about this isn’t right,” Mugbat says. “I mean, Drof has always been stupid, but this feels like a bridge too far even for him. It feels suicidal.”

“Mind virus?” Zunza postulates, citing a theory that Mugbat shared with her some time ago.

Mugbat reinstates eye contact at the mention of his theory. I didn’t think she believed me. “Maybe,” he says aloud. “You said it, not me. I don’t know how to prove it, though.”

“What do you want to do?” Zunza asks. “We can’t go to war, especially without knowing much of anything about Ghorrat.”

“No, we cannot,” Mugbat agrees, shaking his head. “I’d say we just kill Drof, but I suspect the war will take care of that itself.”

“I’m more worried that it wouldn’t kill him, honestly,” Zunza admits. “If that happens, he won’t have learned his lesson.”

“I didn’t even think about that,” Mugbat says. “I’m supposed to be the smart one here.” Zunza chuckles. “Should we leave?” Mugbat asks.

“No,” Zunza replies. “I like Keyll, and so do you.”

“I liked Vash’s Keyll,” Mugbat retorts. “I’m not sure how I feel about Drof’s Keyll.”

“You’re not a quitter,” the hobgoblin encourages. “There has to be another way.” For the next five minutes, the two ponder multiple different plans, from alerting the other vassal houses (which, under Drofbat, are no longer functional and thus have no power to stop him) to starting some sort of controlled fire within the city to redirect his attention (Keyll is made entirely of wood, so fire is categorically forbidden).

Mugbat thinks for a moment. “If we well and truly have a week, we could go to Ghorrat under the guise of some sort of diplomatic mission. They won’t know the difference over there.”

Zunza fixes her posture and cocks her head to the side. “A compelling idea. Do we tell Drofbat? Maybe he lets us go so we could—”

“He’s not going to let me do anything,” Mugbat interrupts. “In this case, like most, it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission. He won’t notice that I’m gone, anyway. His head is too far up his own ass.”

“Nobody will notice if I leave, either.” Zunza remarks. “I haven’t spoken to my family in over a year.”

Mugbat nods. “It’s settled, then? We leave for Ghorrat tomorrow, just before dawn?”

“That is our only option, it seems,” Zunza concedes. “I’ve always wanted to go there, anyway. What are we going to do when we get there?”

“We can work out the details on our way,” Mugbat replies. “It’s a day’s travel on foot but only half on a mount.”

“I can take care of that,” Zunza says. “I know a guy.”

“Perfect.” Mugbat sighs with a halfhearted smile. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

“Seems like it,” Zunza responds. She walks across her workshop and opens a cabinet door to reveal an ornate greataxe, its blade larger than Mugbat’s head. She lifts it out of the cabinet with one hand and hoists it over her shoulder. “I’m bringing this, but—” she falters for a moment. “I’d like not to use it.”

“Aye aye.” Mugbat turns to leave. As he crosses through the threshold, he freezes. Buried trauma bubbles from his subconscious as he recognizes something in the sky that he has only seen once before.

လ

SHELYN

I worry for my brother.

DESNA

Worry not, my love, for his malice is his own.

SHELYN

His malice is my pain.

SARENRAE

His malice spells my rage.

SHELYN

His malice is not solely ‘his’, but merely my reflection.

DESNA

Warped. Distorted.

SARENRAE

Irredeemable.

SHELYN

We may not exist apart.

DESNA (UNISON with SARENRAE)

Neither may we.

SARENRAE (UNISON with DESNA)

Neither may we.

Mouthing along to the actors’ lines, a tall, slender elf watches intently as the scene plays out. Their eye twitches as Sarenrae’s actress delivers her lines. Something is off with Farrah, they silently hypothesize. She is not connecting. “Cut!” Sinsilclæriel shouts. The three players pause. Caro Scura, the playwright, approaches the director’s chair.

“Do we see the same thing?” Caro asks, smirking. “Farrah’s off.”

The ends of Sin’clær’s mouth curl into a smile. “You read my mind, as always.” They turn to the actors. “Farrah, come hither for a moment.”

Farrah, a beautiful human woman with olive skin and radiant blonde hair, approaches. “Good morning, director. You called?”

“Yes, I did,” Sin’clær replies. “Something is bothering me, bothering us,” they start, gesturing toward Caro as well, “about your performance.” Farrah’s face flushes with blood in embarrassment, but the director ignores her reaction and continues. “I am not enraged, but I want to help. Is there something about Sarenrae that you do not understand?”

Farrah’s expression brightens. “Yes, actually. I’m confused by her wrathfulness, or rather, I’m confused as to why Shelyn and Desna love her so much despite her wrath. I feel as though she would be more tender and loving.”

“Well, that’s because she’s—” Caro starts.

Sin’clær places their hand on Caro’s shoulder and interrupts. “Let us try something. Run that scene again, but I would like you to play Sarenrae as ‘tender and loving’ this time. Make whatever changes you feel appropriate. Maybe you are correct after all.”

Farrah’s brows raise in surprise. “Oh! Really? Alright,” she exclaims, resuming her position with her costars.

Caro glances at Sin’clær, puzzled. “What are you doing?”

“Caro, we both know that this is not going to work,” Sin’clær replies. “Sometimes, though, an artist needs to make these discoveries hands-on instead of simply being told. Farrah is a very talented and clever artist. She needs to learn by doing.”

The three actresses restart their scene, keeping everything exactly the same except for Farrah’s first line: she replaces “his malice spells my rage” with “his malice mirrors my devotion”. Sin’clær, analyzing her every move through squinted eyes and furrowed brow, notices that for the rest of the scene, Farrah seems to regret her choice.

This time, Caro cuts the scene off and calls Farrah over. “How did that feel, Farrah?” they ask, already sure of her answer.

“That was even worse. I realized that if Sarenrae constantly fawns over the other two, then not much sets the three apart. I felt flattened by my choice, like I took something away from myself,” Farrah replies.

A vindicated grin stretches across Caro’s face. “You’re exactly right! Sarenrae was the goddess of the sun. When Qunira had a sun, it was bright and hot. You could not ignore its light, no matter how hard you tried. Sarenrae was one and the same. She would not contain her energy, her inner fire, her passion. Desna was neurotic; anxious but intelligent. She worried for her lovers. Some say Shelyn was made of love itself, which often got the better of her. That is precisely what Ties is all about: how love and devotion, regardless of intention, can drive people apart.”

Farrah nods. “That’s very insightful. I think I need more historical context. Do you think the Tørke library has anything on the Prism?”

“Certainly not,” Caro reluctantly laments. “The fire burned most of the Institute’s Divine-era texts. However, luckily for you, I have lots of copies of the books they carried. I received a graduate degree in Apotheotic Studies from Tørke, and I may have bent the rules so that I could hang onto some of the more precious material. You can come over one evening this week and take a look.” Sin’clær winces at the mention of the great fire that destroyed the Tørke Institute’s great Archive of the Lost and took their best friend’s life, of which the ten year anniversary vigil recently took place.

“Wow! Praise the Soul King. I would love that. Thank you!” Farrah tries to conceal her excitement but fails, her wide, bright smile reflecting the skylight; a description fit for a woman who was tasked with portraying the radiance of the sun.

“Of course. Anything for my stars!” Caro beams. Farrah walks back to the other two thespians, Asteriad and Dalmien, and insists that they run the scene one more time. This iteration is the strongest of the three, with Farrah confidently portraying Sarenrae’s fire, both internally and externally. Sin’clær wordlessly smirks.

“Hey, boss!” Sin’clær spins around to find three skeletons dressed in tunics of green, red, and blue respectively. Tom Bones, who was the source of this sudden call, has his fleshless hands around the shoulders of his brother, Tim, while his other brother, Tam, has his hands around Tom’s waist. “Check this out!” The brothers proceed to perform a bizarre facsimile of a conga line, their heads falling off of their necks and rolling down their arms to switch places. After a full rotation, the three toss toothy grins in Sin’clær’s direction.

“Whaddaya think?” the Bones brothers say in unison.

Sin’clær laughs. “While that is an amusing trick, I regret to say that it does not exactly match the tone of Ties. You will have to perform your conga line at your own show.”

Tim Bones sighs, dejected. “We understand, boss. Sorry to waste your time.”

“Maybe we could bring back the xylobone?” pleads Tam Bones. Sin’clær ponders for a moment, recalling a time when the Bones brothers performed a perfect improvised set using Tim’s ribcage to stall between acts during some technical difficulties. Sin’clær’s smirk fades when they remember the trainwreck that followed when the trio was asked to replicate their set at a future show.

“Maybe,” Sin’clær replies. The brothers wave goodbye and abscond to rehearse with the rest of the ensemble. Fucking skeletons, Sin’clær thinks. If only they could be reanimated with their brains intact. They take a moment to wonder about the origins of skeletons’ intellect before retreating to their director’s quarters. Gazing in their mirror, they notice some imperfections in their costume: Sinsilclæriel, in addition to directing Ties, also stars as Zon-Kuthon, the Midnight Lord and twin brother of Shelyn.

Sin’clær glances over their shoulder for a moment, assuring that they are truly alone in their quarters. Out of seemingly nowhere, ghastly hands appear in Sin’clær’s periphery, adjusting their grotesque, bloody mask and dusting off their leather vestments. The director sheds a bloody tear, remembering Galaphreth once again. She would have loved this play. They steel themself, dismiss the specters, and open the door, allowing skylight to flood in. Sin’clær winces. As they descend the short set of stairs to rejoin their company, an overwhelming wave of nausea washes over them: a sensation that they have only felt once before, a decade ago.

လ

Sinsilclæriel, against their better judgement, gazes into the sky. In an instant, their suspicions are confirmed correct; staring back at them is the same nine eyes from ten years prior, arranged in the same triangular formation and blinking arrhythmically. Their dizziness intensifies as they hold eye contact with the shapes. Eventually, the director decides to look away in order to assess whether or not anyone notices the eyes this time around. What they see instead is much more shocking: seven other people, all complete strangers, also gaze into the sky, frozen in awe and horror. A blue-skinned man in a parka, a red-scaled lizardfolk in infernal garb, a tengu woman with static emanating from her feathers, a gruff human man grasping a spear, a colorful fishfolk with a wrench in their hand, an glimmering automaton whose joints glow fiery cyan, and a goblin man wearing an ursine costume surround Sin’clær. The first to react is a young tengu woman, who shrieks at the sight of the shapes and throws her body against the ground. When she notices the other strangers, she shrieks again.

“Who are you?” Winona screams before turning her head to speak to someone unseen by the others. “You don’t see them? They’re right here!” The other six begin to notice one another, some assuming defensive stances and others offensive.

Mugbat drops to all fours, his form now mimicking that of a bear. Nisha vomits her recently-eaten lunch onto the ground. Ruvasarn stares, frozen in fear. C-DES stumbles and falls prone, their visual sensors overwhelmed by what they now experience. Einar raises his spear, preventing himself from being approached. Sin’clær debates summoning a spectral thrall for protection, but decides against it in fear of their abilities being discovered. Geirmund cowers to his knees, tucking his head between his legs and trembling.

Winona continues shrieking as electricity crackles around and through her body. “What the fuck is going on?”