
The Elegy of Fate

by S. R. Laubrea
This ebook has been revised. The story remains unaffected, apart from details that had to be altered to bring it in line with the chronology of events in the Destiny branch of Dyjian's Post-Collision Lore; and other details to keep it in harmony with the Post-Collision Lore in general.

Other considerations were made in the form of copy editing, phrasing, grammar, and other text-body jargon. You know. That meaty writers talk that really doesn't mean —— unless you're stuck ———. But that's life.

☺

~ Shiri

Published with a very special thank you to a

P!NK P▲ND△
Chapters:

Unearthed.

Ysiliad.

Infusion.

Awakening.

Distortion.

Ma'Aukja.

Destiny.

Irreverently Extraneous Infodumps! —

Dyjian's Calendar.

Something About Languages.

A World of Nonsense.

The Featured Three Species:

Çéi.

Kyusoa.

Dyjiite.

The Unapproved Nonsensical Arts:

Powers.

Relic, "A Twig My Brother Made."

The Hubris of Eyes.

Finally, Some Authorly Words.
Unearthed.

Luorvas, the 8th day in the month of Nesvyn;

What occurred during the 451st year into the Seventh Epoch of Dyjian.

Arlen admired the white feathery leaves of the last aphagerodict he saw as he came to the border of where the bog stops and the Blackland begins. This time was going to be different.

As he stepped over the frayed, gray border of bog decay and debris, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He could not place why, or what kept drawing him here. He was not alone this time. Firm fingers wrapped around his wrist and tugged him back.

Sara shivered in the rain, and through the locks of her short brown hair plastered to her face, she gritted her teeth. "What did you bring me out here for? I wanted to go to the zoo, not miles outside of the city to wade through rain and mire!"

He stopped and focused on Sara's face, filtering through his reasons. What to say? His right hand twitched. The hand cannon was right there, in the holster on his hip. Arlen shook his head. "You must not appreciate nature's authentic beauty." He smiled and pulled her along. "No, my dear. I brought you here in hopes of an explanation. Something that can put my mind at ease," he said.

Her scowl softened to a frown. She planted her feet where she stood by the border and crossed her arms. "A war-psyche is more fit for your needs."

"True. But I also wanted to confide in a friend." He stopped and cast his glance over his shoulder, regarding her. Her arms fell to her sides, eyelids relaxed, and head canted to one side.

That is, until he nonchalantly said: "Or an old fling, whichever you are to me first." He stopped by the side of a monumental tower that bowed over from where it stood upright on into the dirt. The sphere mounted on its far end was broken open, and like all other delicate things around the ruins, the glass was strewn about.

"I keep coming to this spot," he said, his eyes roving over the landscape. "Like something is buried just under this." He placed his hand on the tower's side. It groaned. He assumed because of its being old and rusted and the metal no longer stalwart.

"Arlen, it's just an old tower," Sara said, her tone low and irate.

It groaned again, louder, and unprovoked. It did not sound like the groan of old, worn metal. Sara thought it sounded human. She narrowed her eyes and stepped towards the tower, and this time it yelled an indistinguishable slur of sounds. She got down on her knees and poked her head under the bow of the tower, where it rose highest from the mound of mud at its base.

Two little glowing disks of polished gold peeked up at her. She dug out some of the mound and more light flooded into the pocket under the tower's mass. The flesh of the man she found was chalk white and his hair a tangled black mass. He was naked under the tower, thrashing wildly, his pupils constricted and unresponsive to light. There were dark, silvery blisters protruding from the surface of his stomach. They throbbed, both featuring a distinct black spot on the top, that, like the erect nipple of a nursing mother, was tight and prepared to spew.

He had been bitten by a bog ufeidan. The ufeidan coiled around his waist and legs. He could not control his movements; the venom had already made his motor skills useless. It had also forced his pupils shut. Without a second thought Sara took hold of his flailing arm and pulled.

"Help me, damn you!" she yelled.

Sara froze in place, gawking at the shifting body of the ufeidan. It poked its head up, jagged, venom injecting teeth gleaming brown and yellow in the light from its gaping maw. It shrieked. Her hands were locked around the man's palm and his arm that he could not, for the life of him, keep still.

Arlen's eye twitched, staring, widemouthed. An inconsolably long time had passed since he'd seen an actual ufeidan. The long, legless lizards were quite common around Dyjian, but the ones native to Malzeyur were rumored to be extinct.

His hand moved to the holster on his hip. The beast hissed, drew its mass back, lunged. Arlen pointed his gun at the brown and gray blur. Six bullets slowed the beast into a writhing, squealing, gnarled thing. The creature rolled until its bloodied head was topside down in the mud. Arlen stepped on the ufeidan's throat, pinning it. One bullet, carefully sent through the brain of the ufeidan, killed it.

With the coils loosened, Sara had an easier time pulling the man out from under the tower and into the rain. Arlen took out a knife from his pants pocket, flipped the blade out and offered it to her. "You're not even going to thank me for saving your life, are you?"

Arlen watched her straddle the man to hold him still. His strength was fading, quickly. His fingers twitched but he did not have the vigor to flail his arms anymore, and they laid wherever he had managed to lay them.

"We need to get him into the infirmary." She did not take the knife. There was no sense in slicing the blisters open and draining them where he could easily end up infected out in the bog.

Arlen, with lazy eyelids and crossed arms, did little to help her. "I want my thank you —"

"Hospital." She glared at him. "Now."

Arlen grunted. He took out his cell phone and tapped on the glossy screen. He put it to his ear and growled a few things as the man's breathing slowed. From swift panting gasps, the breaths he drew were getting short and shallow. His eyes slowly rolled towards his forehead, and vanished behind his fluttering eyelids.

Arlen rubbed his temple with his spare hand. He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, staring down at the man. The golden-eyed man had not died yet, but Sara kept filling his lungs with her own breath, to sustain him.

When the helo arrived, its whirling blades shook the canopy as the transport hovered as low to the ground as it could get. A pair of paramedics brought a gurney down and lay it beside the weakened man, lifted him onto the stretcher, sealed an oxygen mask to his face and hoisted him up into the helo. The whole way back to Kneitun, Arlen and Sara did not share words.

As the helo passed through the curtain of water, Arlen stared out the window. He was the last one to leave the helo, after Sara and the paramedics with the man on the stretcher had vanished beyond the emergency wing doors.

Arlen bit his lower lip. The pain kept his eyes from narrowing and his face from contorting into a scowl. He never expected to find a man. He balled his fist, watching Sara.

Sara focused on the man's face. "Everything is going to be all right. Just stay with me," she said, pulling the dirt out of his matted hair.

The nurse pushed the IV needle into his arm. Seconds later she thrust a needle into the connector. She gradually pressed the plunger until the milky anti-venom filled the drip line. Soon the vital signs monitor began beeping at a steady pace. His breathing remained shallow, but his eyelids stopped fluttering and his muscles relaxed.

Sara donned latex gloves, a surgeon's coat and a white mask. The nurse brought the surgical tray over and stood beside her. She took the scalpel and sliced the blisters, black-silvery blood and yellow-green pus gushed forth. She pushed on the skin around the wound, forcing more pus up.

He groaned again. The slight throbbing pain he easily endured, even the tension of pushing and squeezing around the bites. But the disinfectant burned, horribly.

Sara sighed and lifted off her mask. She bandaged him up real good, checked his IV, then smiled down at him. "Today I gave you a second chance," she said, lifting his head to put another pillow under him. Finally she noticed Arlen, his fist pressed to his lips. She pushed the door open and stepped out into the hallway.

"Another day, another life saved." He smiled and opened his arms to embrace her. "All thanks to my dear Sara —"

"Or an old fling." She arched her brows and pushed him aside. "It's Career Day."

"Yeah," Arlen sighed.

"Put on something presentable. Jeans and a white T with a bloody hand print aren't very dignifying."

He looked into her piercing gaze; she was right. "So I'll see you later tonight —"

"I want him back at eight-thirty." She glared into his bright blue eyes.

"I'm sure you do. If Marqi's not back by then?"

"You bring him back when I say he should be back, or — or I'll..."

Arlen arched his brows and threw his hands up in the air. He kept his hands up, even after she huffed, pushed past him and started down the hall. "He's my son, too." He watched her clench her fists and keep on walking. "He's my son, too!" He shouted after her, until she turned around the corner at the far end of the hall. Somehow, he knew she was going to make his life impossible, so long as there was a child between them.

Already, he regretted not pulling his gun on her, as he strode into the parking garage and retrieved his car. It was an antique model, with short wings and two small fins on the back end. He had to start it through the bypass, because his keys were sitting with his secretary. The ionic engines did not mutter a sound as he tilted the long, floor-mounted joystick forward and the car taxied out of the hospital's garage.

Heavy rains constantly buffeted Kneitun, the capitol of Konstaneah. The rain never touched the city walks, and the brushed steel sheen of her buildings was just as immaculate as the day they were erected. The pristine rain collected high above and poured down all around the city. It formed a blanket of water, held at bay by technologies so profound — and yet so commonplace to the modern Konstanean — that rain was just something one expected to be there like the sheets on a bed.

Arlen gently settled his car down on the top docking pad. He pressed his hand to the scanner on the dash. A cyan light scanned him. "Shutdown."

Thank you for choosing Alekzandryan-built engines, the car chimed.

He held his hands up as soon as he set foot in the foyer of his office. His secretary, Lellayla, stopped tapping away on the touchscreen top of her desk and looked at him. "Didn't go well?"

"Nope!" He leaned on the counter, propping his head up on his hand. "I have no idea why I keep trying to make amends with her, Lel. I mean, wow. Control freak much? I wish I realized that sooner."

"Then you wouldn't have Marqisian."

Arlen snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "You're right." He lingered on the counter, bobbing his finger. "I'd go back in time, to the day that Marqster was conceived. Then I'd suck him right out — itty-bitty wad of cells in a tube of woman-balloon juice. Then I'd hunt you down that day, and convince you to be his surrogate mother."

"What if I refused?"

"I'd go back in time to the night before and he'd be yours anyway." He grinned.

She laughed.

"So." He started for his personal quarters, behind the inner office. "Why hadn't you informed me that it is Career Day?"

"Because you already knew." Lellayla slid her chair back and tucked a tablet under her arm. She followed behind him, her eyes fixed on the tablet.

"Correction: why haven't you informed Sara not to inform me that it is Career Day?" He strode through his considerably messy office and into his room. The first thing he did was open the closet. Casual clothes were neatly folded and placed into dressers. His shoes were organized by the boxes he bought them in. The Ganton-y costumes hung on cedar coat hangars.

"Because you know she's predisposed to tell you regardless of whether you actually know it or not." Her voice was a ways behind him.

He tucked his dress shirt, buttoned and zipped his slacks, slipped on his coat. He had fastened most of the buttons from the collar on down when he glanced over his shoulder at Lellayla, who sat on the edge of the bed. His palms were sweaty. Today, he had to do it. He could not wait any longer. He planned the afternoon off for his son, to actually be there instead of just picking the boy up early, like the previous Career Days. But the afternoon was perfect. No one present but Arlen and Lellayla.

He had to know.

"Lel, can you come here, please? I want a second opinion."

When she got near him, he stepped back and gently moved her to the closet's vanity mirror. He stood behind her, reaching around to the front of her neck. He grinned as he gently pulled the thick leather band of a choker to her neck. It had small braided chains of gold that dangled down to teardrop diamonds. Nine thicker braids of sterling silver secured the centerpiece, the gaudy Ra'ol stone. Its deep amethyst turned dark burgundy towards its center; in lines of pearl, the insignia of Konstaneah lay etched.

"I'm thinking that I'm going to need a new secretary," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist as she looked wide-eyed in the mirror. He pulled her to him. "Gantoness Regnant, is a beautiful title —"

"It is an overwhelming title." Lellayla turned and searched his eyes. "Arlen, why?"

He loosed his arms from her hips, but his hands still lay on her. Arlen closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then focused on her hazel irises. "Were I not already Arch Ganton, this would be easier, being that I am a common man from coarse, mundane roots. Status, freedom and power absolute — my whole life is vanity, except that every day... that I see you... my hearts race. Lel, I can't live without you. I'd much sooner revolt against myself and go running off with you to — anywhere — I mean screw playing King of the Castle, I love you. Always. And I wish you'd marry me. Even if it means some fancy title — it's nothing but a title. To me, you're Lel. And, Lel, you'll always be to me. So... why not?"

Silence. His eyes were watery, his pulse jumped, palms sweaty. Arlen feared her saying no. He hated 'no,' or anything remotely resemblant of it. He did well to keep his breathing regular.

"I don't know what to say."

He glanced up at the closet corner, tapping his lip. He smiled broadly. "I love the sound of 'yes'."

She stepped forward, laying her arms on his shoulders. "Yes."

"W-wait — what?" Arlen had the stupidest, wide-eyed look on his face. He scratched his head. After contemplating just how to hold his cool over inevitable rejection, her espousal threw him off. "I mean — yes — yes — yeah!" He wrapped his arms around her hips and lifted her clear off of her feet. Holding her tight, he twirled.

"Put me down, put me down! Down!"

"Oh, right —" Arlen sat her down on the bed. He glanced at the clock. School was almost out, Career Day almost past. Good, just the way he wanted it. Arlen had no intentions of sitting in the classroom with everyone else waiting his turn. Waiting, among contentious whispers and inquiring minds. "As this is your last day being my secretary, my final order is that you clock out, and come with me."

"Sure thing, boss." She smiled.

When Arlen arrived at the school, he made certain that the limousine occupied the reserved space, centered at the school's entrance where the kids were picked up. Twenty-seven escorts were arrayed parallel to one another: thirteen in front, thirteen in back, a single escort at the head of the accompaniment. He imagined the panic of the principal, clutching his chest between his hearts as the Arch Ganton closed the limo door and strode through the front entrance.

The principle's assistant hurried over to Arlen. "E-excuse me!" She said. Six men in black suits immediately got between her and Arlen, folding their hands in front of themselves. She reeled backwards.

Arlen stopped and looked at her. He liked to think he had that effect on people in general; that he was an astonishing sight to behold — when he wasn't dressed as Arch Ganton. "Yeah?" he asked her.

"My — m-my — Ganton, sir. M-may I ask wh-what brings — you — here?"

"Marqisian Aylariun Malyth, what classroom is he in?"

She pointed down the hall behind him. "Homeroom th-thirty-five."

"Thank you." He tucked his arm under his stomach and bowed at the waist. He noticed her office mates poking their heads through the door.

Homeroom thirty-five had parents. All of whom were present and paired next to their child, except for a little blue-green eyed auburn-haired boy, who instead of listening to one of Arlen's subordinates talk about how important organization, communication and following orders precisely is for the job, especially when he didn't like working underneath Arlen, rested his head on his folded arms and looked on with a let down face.

"Huh."

"Sir?" said one of the bodyguards.

"I didn't know Ryginald had a daughter. Or that he despises me, too." Arlen waited, listening through the door. "Well, he can find a new boss." Finally the sound of applause filtered through the door.

"Marqisian Malyth, will you come up and tell us about your parents' careers?" The teacher motioned for him to come up front.

Marqisian felt a fluttering sensation in his stomach as he stood in front of the teacher's desk and faced his classmates. The faces of the parents were bright, but the kids were sneering.

"H-hi." He barely waved, cheeks flushed. "I-I know I've told — a lot of you that... I'm the son of the Arch Ganton... But my —" He swallowed and looked out the window. "My — my dad is too busy to be h-here and... M-my mom works a lot as a doctor. But, I'd l-like to be a Ganton, like my d-dad when — I grow up."

"And never show up?" A kid shouted from the back of the class.

Marqisian lowered his head. He started for his seat. Shame loomed over him. It was so heavy that he did not notice the gasps and stammering, garbled whispers.

"To the contrary! A Ganton is a man of impeccable timing; he is precisely where he needs to be, when the need calls for him. And, as opposed to running the country I'd much rather be here —"

Marqisian had almost sat down when the sound of Arlen's voice filled the room. "Dad!" He ran across the room and threw his arms around his father, hugging him tightly.

"On behalf of my son," said Arlen.

He smiled broadly, gazing up at him. "I thought you wouldn't make it," he said.

Arlen knelt down, making himself level with Marqisian. "I would rather die than let my Marqster down." He kissed Marqisian's forehead.

Arlen carefully contemplated what he wanted to say. No doubt there were hungry minds, what wanted to delve into sensitive information. An opportunity to openly address the head of a country without regulation of audience and press presented more problems than it did freedoms.

"I have been many things throughout my life. I understand the thinking behind the man on top always being born in a golden cradle. That's not true. I'm poorly trained for my life's calling. Being Arch Ganton is a walk in the park — but being a dad?" Arlen chortled.

"All the books in the world could never have prepared me for Marqisian. I mean changing diapers, and getting up four in the morning to feed this screaming, tiny half-me?" He noticed some parents smiling, chuckling. "It's not the most relaxing career in the world. But watching Marqisian grow — seeing his first steps, first words, and now his being nine — wow..."

Arlen shook his head. He looked down at Marqisian. "Being a father has to be the most rewarding thing I have done in my life. I love it. In fact, I would unquestionably do it again. There you have it. Arlen Marqees DuShaffte, Arch Daddy."

The hushed, small crowd looked on with awe. Arlen motioned for Marqisian to get his backpack and his homework. Just as he had arrived, the man departed with the boy jogging up to his side. Finally, the school bell rang. The parents along with their children sat there, awed, still.

Arlen poked his head in and pointed at Ryginald. "You're fired."

Lellayla held the limo door open.

"Lelly!" Marqisian ran up to her and hugged her tightly.

Their smiling faces brought a fragment of peace to Arlen's mind. He lingered on the pathway to the school entrance. Seeing them hug, he only wondered if he was doing the right thing. His son watched him.

"Dad?"

Arlen looked at Marqisian. "What?"

"Are you okay?"

Arlen snorted. "Of course I am!" He was faintly trembling. Finally he got in the limo. Marqisian sat between him and Lel. The boy almost hopped out of his seat, arms waving about as he divulged the very wisdom given to him by his third grade teacher. Lellayla listened intently, questions abounded.

Arlen did not notice when they stopped. He had not said a word, and they were almost to the Embassy.

"You're not okay, are you?" Marqi frowned, pushing into his father's lap.

"No, not really." He wrapped an arm around his son and ruffled Marqi's hair. He glanced at the boy. Marqi's brows were up. Arlen knew that look: he was expecting an answer before his bedtime. "Marqster, listen." Arlen seated Marqisian. "I'm going to give you a choice. A big, fat, important choice."

"O-okay," Marqi said, anxiously.

How to explain a complex situation to a nine year old, Arlen had not the faintest idea. Arlen took a deep breath. "Marqster, do you want to live with your mom, or your dad and Lel?"

He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head.

"I'm not trying to come between you and your mom, or be out of your life... but this is your choice, and whatever you do, I'm behind you one-hundred percent. Marqi, I just don't want anything to do with your mom anymore." Arlen balled his fist. His head hurt trying to keep tears from flowing over his eyelids. He could not bear the thought of Marqisian living with Sara. Because he knew what that entailed.

Marqisian smiled and leaned on Arlen's side. "Dad, I want to live with you," he said.

Arlen nodded. "Okay," he sighed. He knew he should be happy. But that feeling from the Blackland followed him. As if someone was scrutinously watching his every move, all his decisions, his motifs. Yet, that man — up until the moment Sara unearthed that man, Arlen had never returned from his ventures in the Blackland feeling as he did. He reached for his cell phone. Sara needed to know Marqisian's whereabouts tonight.

The cell was set to silent, no vibration, in her pocket. Sara kept tapping a pen to her lips. She focused on the readings of the display that tracked the man's neural patterns. He had lain there all day as if exhausted. Yet his mind could be compared to a bee hive of activity; he wasn't sleeping.

"Doctor Malyth," The gerontologist knocked on the door frame. "You are going to want to see this."

Her head twitched. "Come in."

The gerontologist stepped in. He held a tablet in his hands that displayed data from a series of DNA, scans and radiology tests. He handed the tablet to Sara.

Her brows furrowed and she gawked at the screen, sliding the graphs along with her finger. "This suggests that he's over twelve billion years old."

"Yep." The Geron-nurse nodded.

"That's impossible." She shoved the tablet back into his hands. "He can't be older than the outset of mankind and still be human." She glanced back at the neural monitor. "Get the harness on him. I want to probe his brain." She snapped her fingers. There had to be logical explanations for all this.

The nurses had fit the harness around his head when Sara entered his room. The man lay there in the bed, calm and respiring deeply. She was about to connect the harness to the Graphic Neural Exposure and Imaging Machine, when the nurse jumped back and screamed.

The man sat upright and glared into their faces. He glanced at his hands; then ripped the pads and monitor wires from his skin. The drip needle ran deep into his vein. Then, he noticed his blood. It flowed black but pooled fluorescent silver. This was wrong. His hands trembled as he palmed his arm where the IV was. His fingers were covered in his blood.

"You're okay, calm down!" Sara pressed gauze to his arm. She looked at him oddly.

▼ Sara~ His unblinking gaze allured her. Sssara...~ He said, yet his lips did not move. Slowly he canted his head to one side. Finally I get to meet you.

She could not look away. The rings of gold swimming in bright pools of pearl — brighter than any oculars she had ever seen — captured her attention and refused to release her like a cold blooded constrictor.

▼ You've kept me waiting, Sara.~

"H-how do you know my —"

▼ I know a lot about you, Sara. More than anyone knows — even you.

"What do you mean you know about me!?" She clenched his arm, voice escalating.

He lifted a finger to his lips.

▼ I'm elated you want to know — but I cannot tell you here... Take me home with you.

Sara regarded him: tall, slender, and able to project his thoughts into her mind. She reached into her pocket for her pen. "How am I able to hear you?"

▼ We share a special bond, Sara. Something no other person on the face of Dyjian will have with you. Still, to prove I am not your enemy...

Hot, wet euphoria rushed through her. She gripped the rail at his bedside, crumbling to her knees, panting, her every cell tingling intensely. A sensation remarkably like an orgasm ripped all throughout her body. Any longer and Sara would be on the floor, quivering, unable to make heads or tails of the world around her.

The sensation stopped. He sat there, eerie little smile on his lips.

"Wh-who are you?"

"Yonathael," he said. 'And you will not regret knowing me.'

Sara signed the discharge papers. Soon she was in her car, and Yonathael was wrapped in a long coat sitting beside her. The apartment complex she resided in was not far from the hospital. With the scan of her hand and the confirmation of her voice, the door opened.

She had a small place with bleached white walls. She hung her purse on the rack by the closet and motioned for him to sit on the couch. "I want answers." She crossed her arms.

"You should." Yonathael sat down, peeking around at her immediate things.

"Now." Her voice cut through the air.

But where should he begin? He laced his fingers together and placed them on his knee — crossing one leg over the other. He leaned back thoughtfully. "I am the reason Arlen kept coming to the tower. I was drawing him —"

"Impossible —"

"Let me finish." He cleared his throat. "Drawing him, because I knew he would bring you. Your love-loathing relationship is thicker than mere actions. Arlen knows you're too meticulously controlling to have Marqisian —"

Sara stared in disbelief. "How do you know —"

"I said: let — me — finish." Yonathael's stare made Sara shiver. "He knows that you would not allow yourself to get pregnant for no good reason. But Arlen can't remember the sex that led to his son's birth in the first place — no. He keeps seeking closure with you; subconsciously wanting to kill you — and what better place than out in the Blackland?"

Hardly anyone visited the Blackland. No matter how a body had come to know death, no one would question it. Because the onus of death deterred the living. The ruins were not natural.

"But, his most beloved treasure — Marqisian — what would the boy think? Knowing that he would have to tell his son that he shot his mother in the cursed place. So he brought you, to put you to death, on the day that my awakening came full circle. That lizard had been coiled under that tower for years, waiting for me to come back."

"Back from what?"

Yonathael smirked. "You humans ought be grateful that you can't be broken." His thoughts strayed from him, an aloof gaze rolling to focus on nothing. His head bobbed, like a cat judging its prey. "I possibly deserved it."

He dislocated his jaw, it popped, then he moved it back into place. Finally he focused on her. "I was held prisoner for a long time, Sara. I did everything my masters asked of me, only to be torn down and discarded; ripped from my proper form, alienated from my power of aelyth..." He went quiet. "What irony, the very thought, that Destiny himself can be adversely 'destined'."

She furrowed her brows, and sat on the couch, perplexed, that he referred to himself as Destiny. She was not sure if she understood him right. "They break you... so that you're easier to kill?" But how does 'Fate' become 'Broken'?

"You're smarter than I give you credit for." He grinned. "That ufeidan was there to kill me. After it succeeded, it would have died. But you and Arlen were right on cue." He watched her face contort into a grimace. "You're disturbed."

"Yeah, I am." Her head bobbed. "This is scary."

"As well it should be." He said, softly, sweetly.

"I'm going to take you to the mental ward —"

"Sara, no." He gripped her arm. "Trust me, Sara, I mean you no harm. You wanted answers."

"I didn't want to know all this was —"

"Orchestrated?"

She huffed. "Yes."

"That's what you humans call 'Fate,' is it not?" He chuckled. "You all want to believe everything happens for a reason, rejecting choice and free will. Then when someone sits down and explains it all to you, you cringe."

She sat there quietly.

"Is there a room I can have for the night?"

"Marqi's room." She pointed at the stairs. "First door on the right."

He got up. "Thank you, Sara." He bowed, then headed for the room.

The deadbolt on the door was operable only from the outside. The room was empty, as if no one lived there. The white sheets on the bed were pressed to perfection, the windows barred and in the closet the clothes were meticulously arrayed. Not a toy to be seen, exactly the way Yonathael expected it. Straps were hidden under the bed and the only thing that looked out of place was a necklace dangling from the ceiling that featured the talons of a Kyusoa's foot.

Yonathael drew the covers back and laid down. He wasn't trying to go to sleep, even after he heard Sara turn off the tele, headed down the hall past his room and shut the door to her own. 
Ysiliad.

Melvas, the 11th day in the month of Korec, 7╥451.

It wasn't a particularly hot day in the desert, just a cool and breezy morning. The Prince, Rollond, was aware of the importance of his role in specific duties. He started for the Executor's chambers. The Executor-Prefect, Anileon, wanted him present, but hadn't told him why.

Rollond tentatively knew: It was a matter of inspection. He hated inspections. Anytime his mother intended it to be a surprise, he was never caught unawares. The more they kept it hush-hush, the better he knew. He sighed, taking his time with each pace, shuffling along the hallway. He stopped to feign interest in an automated snack kiosk when his ears started ringing.

A burst of hot wind hit his face, and his muscles tensed. In an instant, the halls of Nexus vanished. Like a beast, his hands treaded sun-heated sand along with his feet, and his body twisted and bent with an unreal fluidity. It was foreign to him, and yet utterly familiar.

"Sir?" A man tapped Rollond's shoulder.

He jolted. A line had formed behind him. He had gotten a creme-filled Konstanean pastry, but crushed it while he was — out in the desert? More than that, why was he sweaty? Rollond shook his head. "Sorry," he said.

The man offered Rollond a paper towel. He took it, wiped the creme off his hands, and ducked into the men's room.

The faucets weren't automatic. He touched the top of the faucet's curve and slid his finger to his right. Cold water flowed from it. He cupped his hands and splashed his face several times, glancing up into the mirror.

His eyes — what were normally midnight blue — turned jade green. For that matter, the white locks of his hair became long ebony tendrils, and his expression, although he was astonished at what he saw, was fierce and desperate.

A brash, electric sensation ripped through Rollond. He gripped the sink and the counter to keep from collapsing to the floor. He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming, and yet, he heard an inhuman shriek as if he was crying out in frustration and fury.

The next thing he knew he was bound and being dragged and then — he forced himself to stand and focus on the mirror. He was back to himself.

If asked, he couldn't explain what was going on. Except that these hallucinations were a little too real; realer than his usual daydreams. In them, he felt as though he were literally inside someone else, experiencing everything they went through as they underwent it.

He splashed his face one more time, then dried himself with a few paper towels. Stay focused, he thought. I got this, I got this, he reassured himself as he stepped into the Executor's office.

Anileon motioned for Rollond to take the Executor's seat. "To fill you in," Anileon said, "a Naelun wants to resign."

Rollond waited for Anileon to continue; he didn't. "And?"

Anileon arched his brows, poked out his lips, shrugged. That's it.

"Right," Rollond sighed. He powered on the desk. It chimed, emitted the rays of its holographic interface, and Rollond began poking through it.

Gradually, as he did, the room darkened. The sound of a conveyor belt filled his ears, and every muscle in his body froze. One terribly obvious thought floated through Rollond's mind:

I can't move.

Long leather gloves fit up to my shoulders, terminating in steel finger guards, and four pairs of cuffs lock my arms in place. I know I can easily break the cuffs apart, yet when I try, I merely arch my back and thump against metal underneath me.

My vision roves about for any identifiable thing. The only sense I can make of my surroundings is that I am not where I belong. There are people beside me. Their bodies are covered in environmental safety suits,with faces hidden behind gas masks. These people are Hedonites. I recognize the S'botenum body-shaping enviro-suit and eerie gas mask combo anywhere.

I recognize that each chamber is sealed, and that my captors operate on a warp grid. But at the same time, this is all foreign to me. The room is full of tanks. Within the glass bubbles an unfamiliar cyan goop, and there are creatures in them that I have never seen before. Their faces are human, as are much of their upper bodies. However at the end of their long, triple-jointed legs are hands, and between their legs floats their slender tail.

Somehow, I resonate with them — I know I belong to them, I am one of them, but I am not. I am different. I know this.

A tank hatch hisses open. The goop bubbles. My captors move to place a circlet around my head, and then stop. Everything freezes — still, motionless. Not even the air moves. A tan hand rests on my shoulder. I turn around, and there he is. His eyes burn a jade green flame. He is naked, shivering, and he tucks his fleshy tail between his legs.

'Uunani, uunani — aaburo teut metazanschi,' he says.

I can't help staring at him. Bit by bit, his words become clearer to me. Until I finally understand him:

'Human, human — please help my distant-kins!'

'Who are you?'

'I am He, who is like rain.'

'Where are you?'

'It is you that knows. Help us, please — '

The masked assistants crown him with the metal band, and his body goes limp. They replace his bindings with simple metal bracelets, and force a long feeding tube down his throat. Then cast him in like a discarded rag doll and seal the tank.

The Hedonites turn and leave, chuckling among one another as they step onto the warp pad and dematerialize.

A little feral girl, with feet like hands, a long snake-like tail, and hair like a bright copper colored mane, steps out from under the hovering transport slab. She sobs and wails, beating on the tank 'He who is like rain' is in. She keeps crying out his name, but her voice is tiny inside the gargantuan containment room. No one can hear her. The girl takes a deep breath, smothering her frantic tears, and creeps towards the pad.

The last I know of her, she darts for it. Her body glows, she breaks apart, and the loudest thump I've ever heard shakes me.

Rollond stared at Fylus, who cursed as his tablet slipped from his sweaty hands and hit the floor. The lighting of the office was nearly blinding to Rollond as his vision adjusted from the dimness of the place with tanks, and the crisp air made his throat itch. He could not discern what had happened to his surroundings, but they left him dizzy as he thought he must have been daydreaming.

"I hope you accept my official resignation," Fylus said, forwarding a text file to the Prince's computerized desk.

His fingers traced through the holographic light, and everything irrelevant to Fylus sprung up from Rollond's desk. He removed his round, orange-tinted spectacles and rubbed his temples, his thoughts still whirling. What was all that?

The Executor-Prefect, Anileon, stood between the two men towards the wall. It was when he lowered his head and shot Rollond a certain look that the Prince knew what he was in for.

"Something wrong?" Anileon asked, as he casually strode over and leaned towards the Prince. He poked through the things hovering in the light of Rollond's desk, and when he found the file, Anileon scrolled through several pages of grievances to the bottom of the final page, where the articulate words 'I quit,' followed by Fylus Medduin Ysiliad were the only things he or Rolland really needed to see.

Rollond motioned to Anileon, swiveling in his chair to face the window, uncertain if he was still dreaming. He knew the burden of Anileon's gaze, but his mind went back to the little copper-headed feral girl. What about her?

"Fine. I'll be forwarding this to Her Grace. As of this day, consider yourself a free man." Anileon closed the document.

"I was expecting more of an uproar to my leave," Fylus said, "I have been an asset to Nexus, have I not? At least one hundred, eighty-eight years served as a Naelun for the Forty-forth, from the Forty-forth, and I have yet to see anyone who can manage that Tribe as well as I."

"Maybe," Anileon said. "You know the nature of Alekzandrya and its Nexus — we're busy. Besides, we already have nominees for your replacement."

"Excuse me?"

"You — are — easily — replaced." Anileon's voice was cold and composed, threatening.

"Sir, I don't believe that there is anyone who can match talent such as mine —"

"Mister Ysiliad, you have already submitted your resignation. Now go take your things and leave, before I call security and have you thrown out, and your personals purged with the garbage."

"As you say." Fylus bowed and backed out of the presence of Anileon and Rollond.

The glimpse Rollond caught of Fylus's cheeky grin made him shake his head. He slouched in his chair.

"I need you to focus," Anileon said, grim disapproval manifest on his features. "How can I know you will govern the Naelunnai of Alekzandrya's Tribes if you can barely give attention to a man's resignation?"

Rollond groaned. This again, he hated this. His every meager shortcoming resulted in lecturing.

"Despite my efforts, you keep proving yourself ill-prepared, badly equipped, unfit for the position and power that you are to inherit."

Power and Inheritance; you are the vessel upon which we bestow the pinions of authority. The mere thought made Rollond grit his teeth. He hated it; he despised it — the idea of becoming Neisam. If he was doomed to have power, he at least wanted it on his own terms, at his own time, when he was more than ready — when he was willing — to accept it.

But whether he was ready or not didn't matter; he was destined to rule as Neisam, and he knew it. He glanced up at the Executor-Prefect: Anileon paced, gesturing at the walls as he talked.

"Rollond," Anileon stopped and looked at him. "This is unacceptable."

He swallowed, and sat upright. "My apologies, Sir." He flicked up the list of finalists out of all the nominees. Five candidates were arranged by qualification and public popularity. Four of them were men, and the least popular one according to the polls, was a woman. Yet, she had the greatest credentials.

"I have made up my mind," Rollond said.

"Oh?" The skepticism in Anileon's voice also showed when he arched his brows. The way Rollond lifted his chin and cocked his head almost elicited a snide remark and a scoff from Anileon.

"Yes," he nodded, "the Saankyr surname is one of the clans that compose the Forty-fourth, right?"

"M'hm — wait," Anileon glared at Rollond. "You cannot go with the woman."

"If this supposed to be my inheritance, I should be able to exercise my judgment. My better sense of things says Lakshmi is the one."

"But, but —" Anileon stammered.

"What?"

Anileon waved his hands in the air, grabbing at the invisible words that he wanted to say. But each one kept slipping through his fingers, like wafts of air. "Uunaninjyn," he started to say, wiggling his fingers as he realized what he wanted to say could only be said in Tswaa'ii. "Men are not well enough to will themselves and heed the wisdom of women."

"What does that make my mother?" Rollond asked.

"A woman with attitude. All men tend to respect that."

"Right," Rollond sighed. "Sir, if you would please set into motion the Inaugural Ceremony, I'd greatly appreciate that."

Anileon looked on. His sentiments of pity appeared little different than his other emotions, and his lips were continually flat. "As you say." He bowed and backed out of the Prince's presence.

With a few flicks of his finger, Rollond shut down his desk.

Miles away from Alekzandrya, in Westkads, the long-range reception pad in the city hall glowed like hot coals. Fylus formed on the pad piece by piece, until finally he took his first breath and staggered off the warp receptor. He stuck out his tongue and folded his arms over his stomach. He hated the nauseating after-effect of having dis-and-reintegrated. He straightened himself, and when he got to the podium, he held on to it, fearing he would fall. The state hall was flooded with tumultuous voices, and he motioned for the crowd to calm down. Gradually, their chanting subsided.

"My dear brothers, sisters, and fellowmen for the cause, tonight marks a very special night in Human history. This evening, two hundred twenty-six years ago, Yonaithes unified our wayward tribes, bringing each Naelun-chieftain under a single head. One uniform government to stand guard over the Forty-four, and the clans that composed each of them. It was on this night that Alekzandrya was born. How fitting it is that on this very night another, greater, revolution comes to the fore."

His hired hands were Hedonites. They were perfect for the work, but the people wrinkled their brows and curled their lips downward, scowling at the statuesque foreigners. There were several Hedonites on the pulpit with him, and he motioned for them to go backstage.

"What I am about to present to you is the greatest accomplishment of man, to date," Fylus said, as his crew backstage flicked a few commands into the soft holographic light, and a tank appeared on a hovering lift. They checked the vitals of the creature within. "In our wildest fantasies we conceived of powers beyond our grasp. A mystical ability to manipulate the world around us — even allow us to change the events of the past and manipulate the mysterious entity of fate. Behold:"

He slid his gloves off and rolled back his sleeves. He held out his open hand and focused on it. The veins in his arm swelled and distorted the surface of his skin, as the first licks of flame formed, until he held fire in his hand. He pinched the tip of the flame and drew it away from his palm. "What you see here is a manifestation of what the savages call 'Aelyth.' There is no way for a man to possess this naturally, and for that reason, I am proud of the work that my workers have done with me."

As they heard their cue, a man from backstage stepped over to Fylus. The creature in the tank had died.

Fylus stepped away from the podium. "Then bring up another one!"

"Sir," said the man, "they're all dying off."

Fylus gripped the Hedonite by the cannister of his mask. "Then we'll get new ones later. Right now, I need a replacement —"

The dull sound of a tank toppling onto the floor stole Fylus's attention. Something thumped another empty tank, and it flopped onto its side. The little feral girl jumped, bumping into yet another one. She splayed her ears back and tried to steady the third tank, but at the click-clack of boots coming her way, she pushed it over. She did not know where to hide, and cowered in the shadow of the masked human. She yelped when they wrenched her up by her hair, and squealed, trying to wriggle free.

They took her over to Fylus, who grabbed her by the nape of her neck. "This will do," he said, and headed back for the podium. He cleared his throat. "Together my workers and I have discovered a way to draw the aelyth out of the creatures that possess it. It is a complex nanotechnology, but it basically conjoins with our nervous system and allows our bodies to be sensitive to the presence of aelyth. Then when we desire, we pull it out. Like this." He held the girl out towards the crowd. She appeared magnified on the hologram display above Fylus, tearful, and breathing hard.

As his hand neared her she did not struggle, but looked dazed, as if too concerned with estimating the size of his fingers. When his hand got close enough to her, smoky plumes of light radiated off of her skin and began to wrap around Fylus's hand. Her aelyth had only started down his wrist, when it dissipated.

Her ears flattened back, and she jerked his hand closer with her feet. The girl bared her teeth and bit the flesh between Fylus's thumb and finger, repeatedly chomping down until blood gushed from the empty space between the bones. She spat the chunk of meat at him.

The man yelped and tried to fling her down. But the girl clung to him and rushed up his arm. She took hold of an amulet that rested on his collar bone, and lunged for his neck.

He swatted her off of him. "Filthy beast!" he growled.

The girl bounced off of the stage floor. She winced as she got up, her side and hind leg bright red. She crouched low to the stage and hissed at him, her whole body trembling. Before he and his company could close in on her, the girl turned and darted for the warp pad. Within the blink of an eye, her body shone brightly, she broke apart, and was gone.

He held his wrist until one of his assistants brought him a wad of gauze and some bandage wrap. The black of his blood had stained his white suit cuff and spotted the floor. Fylus rubbed his hand. The pain renewed when he put the gauze, damp with disinfectant, around the wound. The sting nagged at him, demanding his attention, but the wayward faces of the crowd commanded answers.

"What a time for a bad demonstration." Fylus straightened his collar. "The whole purpose for this technology is the advancement of Man. With it, I plan to begin a whole new era, where we will be the sole dominant species of an otherwise untamed world. In my vision of the Perfect Dyjian, I see all nations unified, and to achieve this, certain entities of government must stand down."

The silence the crowd offered him was perfect. The rhythmic thumps of both his hearts sounded in his ears. The taste of awe, wonder, and loathing settled on his tongue like sweet liquor.

A voice broke out from among the crowd. "What you are proposing is absurd!" A woman waded through the assembled mass, her visage scrunched with anger. "Not only are you condoning the inhuman treatment of animals, you are suggesting world-scale sedition. With whom, how, and with what do you plan to realize all your grandiose fantasies?"

"Miss, it is nearly two hundred years that I have been a Naelun of you, my people. If anyone's dreams were absurd, it was yours. I can assure you, I know what I am doing," he said.

"Well — I just out-right disagree!" She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. "What now?"

Fylus tapped his lips. "Very well. Anyone who takes up a similar stance as this Miss here —" he gestured towards the woman — "you may take your leave. Those of you who trust me, please remain with me."

The people mumbled. Gradually, they shuffled into order. Those who disagreed stepped out into the foyer of the city hall. Once the last man was with them, Fylus tapped his forehead with his good fist. The entire hall had emptied, and his assistant's hand burdened his shoulder.

"Sir," said his assistant, "we stand by you."

Fylus pushed his assistant's hand from his shoulder. "Only because I am paying for the lot of you,"' he grunted. "Make certain that you are all prepared for tonight. I don't want to be anymore embarrassed than necessary."

"Sir!" They thudded their fists to their chest and bowed their heads.

Back in Alekzandrya, in the Great Hall upon the city's top tier, Highbar, Rollond exercised the number one thing that he learned to be useful: staring blankly ahead and just a little ways upward into open space. People wanted to see his relaxed eyes and squared posture in accordance with pomp and circumstance. He practiced his regal, absent stare as he waited on Her Grace.

After undoing the last of her long braids, several handmaidens picked through Mylisto's thick, nappy, crimson mane. She checked the slit of her dress to make sure it stopped level with her navel, and the satin hemmed into the slit draped down to just below her knee. She made sure to adorn her arms with all the appropriate bangles. There was not a patch of chocolate skin that did not either have a gold band or a gleaming gemstone to compliment.

Finally, she stepped out, a towering, beautiful Mankarian woman, and Rollond swallowed.

"Darling, your face is flushed," she said, taking hold of Rollond's arm.

"I keep thinking, when you brush your hair back and band it like that, it looks like the back-end of a rather large, wet fowl." Since his birth, Rollond never got used to the sheer volume of her tangled, springy locks. She chose to appear in the fullness of her wild afro, and he lamented it.

"I see," she pulled him closer to her and motioned for him to lead the way.

Rollond breathed in deeply, then sighed, shaking his head. "Apologies, Ma'am."

Mylisto lifted her chin as they stepped onto the dais of the pulpit. "Mh, agreed." She settled down on the throne, crossing one leg over the other.

Rollond gestured back towards the service hall. "I'm going to go grab me a bite."

"I hope it hurts," she sighed.

Rollond slipped into the great hall. He stopped by a decorative shrub next to a bowl of punch on one of the long tables with assorted foods. He took a plate and arrayed some cheese, a couple curly worms and a chicken leg. Finally, he reached for a glass of punch. When he came back to his plate, two pieces of cheese were missing.

A little hand darted out from the bush. It felt around his plate and snatched a head of broccoli. He lifted up one of the curling worms and held it towards the plant. The hand darted out and took it.

He motioned to one of the servitors. "Hey, your lid," he said. He dropped the lid around the shrub, and immediately the bush squealed and whined. He picked up the platter the bush's pot sat on, and carried it into the janitor's closet. He closed the door behind him, set the platter down, and turned on the light. The lid jiggled in place. The thing in the bush beat at it, and wailed. Its tiny voice barely sounded past the lid.

He jerked it up.

She darted out.

She had big, white eyes and her slender, fleshy tail twitched behind her. She panted furiously, pressing her back against the wall, looking up at Rollond. She stood on the tips of her six finger-like toes, except that she winced, belatedly stretching her left leg. That whole side of her had turned a dark bluish color. The little feral girl suspected that she had met her end. Then Rollond pulled a napkin from his coat pocket, unfolded it, and set the small hunk of cheese down in front of him.

The girl edged closer to the cheese. She jumped at it, and within seconds, swallowed.

"I'd swear I was dreaming when I first saw you," Rolland said.

The girl grinned. "Ashenzsi?" she asked. "Vyllen au Ashenzsi —"

Rollond waved his hands. "Wait, wait, whatever it is, I don't speak it."

"Hm." She nodded, and hopped towards him. "So'yi, nai yiim," she said, tapping her chest. Then she pointed at him. "Au?"

"I don't —"

She did it again. "So'yi."

Gradually he began to point at himself. "Rollond."

"Tsche!" She threw her hands up and smiled. "So'yi." She hopped. "Rollond," she said, pointing at him. "Ashenzsi," she began gesturing, like a mime behind a wall. "Au," she pointed back at him, "vyllen," she traced around her eyes with her finger, "Ashenzsi," and started patting the invisible wall again.

Rollond looked at her funny. "I... see Ashenzsi?"

"Tsche, tsche!" She nodded.

As he lowered himself to her eye-level, So'yi's tongue fluttered. Her words were all Tswaa'ii, but from the way she moved her arms and hopped about, trying to show him, Rollond gathered a sense of what she was saying.

"Ouh," she snapped her fingers and reached into her tangled hair. She yanked and yanked until the amulet came loose. She looked it over and bit it before she held it out towards Rollond, and motioned towards the walls.

"This is Fylus's," he said, taking the trinket from her. "Well thank you. I'll have to return it to him —"

"Nai'ii, nai'ii!" She tugged at his cuff. Frustration and pain contorted her beaming face. An expression of agony begged for attention, as she struggled to say one word: "Dane — gier. Dane-gier."

Danger.

A dull whirring sound rang in Rollond's ears. Cold sweat beaded on his palms, his hands were shaking. He could barely breathe, as an oozy and cold, wet sensation crawled up from his soles. His palms became clammy, and he pushed at the air as if he were touching glass. Rollond could not hear So'yi's desperate voice as she waved her arms, pointing at the door. Because the whirring in his ears only got worse.

He made a fist and jabbed. He struck air, but his knuckles hurt. He fell, and So'yi kept calling his name. She grabbed at his face, patting and shaking him. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he shivered, his clothes dampening in sudor.

The auditorium filled to capacity. People were getting restless as time kept ticking by, and Mylisto remained aware of it. "Where is my boy?" she asked Anileon, who stood beside her.

He shrugged. "Deepest regrets, my Grace, but the whereabouts of your boy, I not yet know."

"Go and find him, Tsuboha, please."

Anileon bowed, "as you say."

She took a breath to calm herself, a smile of elegance alighting her features as she rose, and the people of the chamber rendered applause. With the slightest lift of her exquisite hand, all in her company became hushed and took their seats. "As a subject for the remarks of the evening, the history of our people need not be recounted. For it is not due to the stepping back, the walking in reverse, the reverting to the past that has brought us together this night. Instead is it my pleasure to speak of forthcoming things, as it is to the future that we owe our deepest gratitudes. Still, it has been by no simple task that our nation has prospered. In light of our peace, our success, our standing amongst the nations, the quality of life for ourselves, and the generations to come, I stand here now not as like a matron apart from you, but as your comrade. For the simple fact that the choices of each individual, to take a step in the right direction, has lead us to where we are today."

The audience applauded Mylisto. In the focal light she gleamed like a precious jewel. When their commendation subsided, she continued:

"It is with the greatest joy that I announce our newest accession to the body of Naelunnai. It is with the greatest hope that I do believe this will be a welcome leap in the direction of equality among all sentient intellectuals, in that we are able to cohabitate, and co-direct free of perceived limitations. It is with this in mind that I welcome Lakshmi Saankyr to the position of Naelun, from the Forty-forth, for the Forty-forth." She finished with her genteel smile.

"Is it time that we allow women to trample over men?" Fylus's voice sounded from the speakers, breaking what applause Mylisto had established. "No, I don't think so." The focal light roved about for him, coming to fix on him as he stood on a service walk near the ceiling. "You are very well-spoken, Mylisto, but authority will always be vested in the male intellect, and I especially don't see reason to attempt to shift otherwise."

"A voiced opinion is always welcome," she said, "even yours, Fylus. Although given the grievances of your resignation, I inferred that you, of all people, would be pleased with the proceedings."

Fylus chuckled. "I am well pleased with the proceedings." He stretched his fingers, and the first licks of flame wove between them. "But enough with the pleasantries, woman." The fire, fully formed, cackled as his hands neared each other. "Die!" He thrust them both forward and from the triangle of his hands, a raging fireball as big as a watermelon erupted forth. It swirled as it screamed through the air, wild with arcs of fire lashing erratically.

Mylisto looked on helplessly. "Oh, Tsuboha," she whispered. She put her arm over her eyes and ducked.

The explosion swallowed the screams of the audience. Fylus cocked his head back, smiling, confident he made his mark, until the smoke cleared. "What!? How did you —"

Anileon's palm smoked. His skin up to his elbow was bright red, and the fire ate all but his pants. "So the boy learns to throw firecrackers, does he? Who did you rape to get your power?"

"How about I make you my next victim," Fylus said, drawing his hands back again. "Then you can see for yourself what my sources are!" Another manifestation of Fylus's fury burst forth, just like the one before it, then a second, and a third.

The Executor-Prefect turned his hand palm-up and stretched out his wrist, catching the first ball of fire. It turned into smoky plumes of light, then surged along his arm, across his shoulder blades and into his other hand. Within an instant, by a mere gesture, he called forth a dome of indigo radiance and thrust it down onto the audience. "Stay within the bubble," commanded Anileon, "you'll be safer."

With the aelyth of the second fireball, he did the same, casting the indigo barrier around Mylisto and the present Naelunnai. The third fireball struck, and the barrier flashed. Not even heat penetrated it. Anileon leapt up onto the wall, anchoring himself upright by the thick talons of his finger-like toes. His legs were powerful springs, propelling him higher with each stride. He twisted himself around in the air and landed on the catwalk with a boisterous thud.

Fylus's hearts almost jumped out of his chest. He stepped back, bumping into the rail, pointing at Anileon. "Y-you're —"

"A Kyusoa," he said, "you look surprised." He knew a man did not observe another's feet often. Especially when in the presence of another man.

"S-stay back!" Fylus flung another wad of fire.

Anileon smacked it away into one of the support cables near Fylus's end, snapping it. The catwalk dropped to a tilt. Anileon gripped it with his bare feet, while Fylus almost stumbled over the railing.

"Executor," Fylus panted, "please, have mercy on this misguided soul!"

He spread his fingers, tilting them forward, and his aelyth calmly slithered into the space of his hand. It formed a simple, patient sphere. "Why should I?" The ball hummed as it swelled between Anileon's fingertips.

All cockiness fled Fylus. His face was warped with concern, brows wrinkled, eyes begging for pity. In Anileon's stringent, cold gaze, Fylus found none. "Because the building is on fire," he said, "and I don't want to die. Please, sir, I beg you. I have seen you extend kindness — even your heart to others. So I ask of you: do the same to me."

"No," he said, and the concentrated aelyth between his fingers shot forth as a broad beam of glaring effulgence. It severed the final cord, and the catwalk bowed down under Fylus's weight. It crashed into a cross section beneath it, and Fylus's chest slammed on the railing. He pulled himself over to the other side, stifling a painful cry as he forced himself onto his feet. He hugged his arms over his nose and mouth, and ran into the dense fire of the catwalk corridor.

The ceiling of the auditorium groaned as long stretches of flame danced almost erotically along the walls. Anileon did not have to look to know that Mylisto and the rest of the people were secure underneath the indigo barrier. But he took a deep breath and tensed, as the ceiling winced one last time, then descended.
Infusion.

Eiynvas, the 12th day in the month of Korec, 7╥451.

The candles made the sensual night just bright enough to see. His senses were drawn to her body, and whether he stroked along her belly or licked the side of her neck, he was acutely in tune with her every quiver. His thoughts were little more than the quiet of her moans, and the electric sensation that titillated down his stomach to his loins.

"Again," she said. "Arlen, I'm cumming again." Her breathing deepened, and her body tensed, pushing against his ingress.

He took hold of her, and his advances hastened. All at once, her tension melted, and hot, intense waves of her succulent creme covered most of his hips and thighs. Even after her body ceased clenching at him, he did not stop. The moment had gone too far, and he had no intention of willing himself out of it.

Once more he was cumming, and did not care to know how many times he had before. To the slick sound of her wet sex, the softness of her whimpers, the scent of her hair, the smoothness of her skin, he drove himself in deeply, and shuddered, biting his lower lip to keep from waking Marqi who slept across the hall.

Together they lay on their sides. Arlen enjoyed being connected to Lel, throbbing inside of her until he became too soft to remain. He caressed her, his fingers gliding over the small rise of her belly; the first signs of their unborn child was starting to shape the outward appearance of Lel's stomach.

"When are you going to tell Marqisian?" Lel asked.

Arlen nuzzled her neck. "Tomorrow," he muttered. He didn't want to think about it. He was almost in denial of Lellayla being pregnant. As much as it was thrilling, he kept having subconscious flashbacks to when Sara swelled up like an overfed, pot-bellied pig, and he kept forcing himself to relax. This wasn't anything like then, and Lel was nothing like Sara. Still, he struggled to stay right where he was, nestled, curled beside Lel. Reality could wait, and Marqisian, too.

"You promise? I don't want to get too far along and then have him feel abandoned because we didn't tell him."

"Lellayla," Arlen groaned. "He'll be fine."

"Are you certain?"

"The boy will be just peachy."

"Well if you're sure about it," she said. "This is all just so much for me. Why can't we have the ceremony in private, like the wedding?"

"The people need to put a face and an attitude with a name, especially when it comes to those taking the lead over them. Otherwise 'Lellayla DuShaffte' could be a well-iced cake that I made, and refused to share the recipe. Trust me, you will be fine."

"I'm just not sure I'm ready for all this authority," she sighed.

"I tell you what," he rolled over and propped himself up on the pillows. "After it's done, we'll go get a big, fat bottle of wine and get drunk."

"Need I remind you I'm pregnant?" She glared at him.

"Oh, right. Then we'll get you some sugary non-alcoholic beverage and I'll down all the actual alcohol. Believe me, you'll feel better after I'm done having a hangover." He grinned.

"It's just nerve racking."

"Hey, hey, nothing changes. You're still a normal person, you still have to do normal-people things. Or else the job gets to you. Remember, it's just that: it's a job — an awkward, oddly self-defeating-but-rewarding job. You will be fine."

The alarm clock chimed. It had just turned seven-thirty in the morning, and the silvery sun steadily rose into the wet blue-green hues of the city's curtain of rain. Arlen hit the alarm-off button, started to get out of the bed, but flopped back down after sitting up. "Nope," he declared, "my legs feel like cooked noodles."

"I'll take him this time," Lel said.

That same morning held a less than menial significance to a doctor in an apartment. The scent of sizzling bacon greeted Sara as she groggily started towards the kitchen. "What — how did you get out here?" she growled.

The news was on the counter's television; the anchorwoman related how authorities on the scene of a collapsed, smoldering building in Alekzandrya were not sure what happened. Yonathael moved behind the counter, spatula in his hand, arranging strips of bacon and eggs on a plate. "I almost understand why you kept the straps under that bed, Sara," he said. "That boy of yours is almost a genius." He retrieved a carton of juice, poured her a glass, and arranged it on the counter, motioning for her to sit. "What sort of mom straps her son to his bed at night?"

"That's none of your business," she said, crossing her arms.

"I see." He poked through the channels to a local news station. "You may not want to go to work today, Sara."

She shook her head. "Why should I listen to you —"

'It is official,' the anchorman said. 'This afternoon will be the first in just over one thousand years that Konstaneah will get to have a ceremony celebrating the integration of our new Gantoness Regnant.'

Yonathael could almost taste Sara's desperation and disbelief, as she scrambled for the phone and hurriedly tapped Arlen's number.

'Yeah, Arlen. If this is some important political thing, call my office phone. Other than that, please leave a massaaage.~'

"Arlen, call me the instant you get this message." She slammed the phone on the counter. "This isn't happening! Tell me this isn't happening!"

"It is, Sara," Yonathael said, sipping a mug of hot tea.

"No, no." She paced from the kitchen to the wall in the living room. "You foreknow things, don't you? Tell me what happens to them."

He kept sipping his tea.

"I said tell me —"

"It doesn't work like that, Sara," he said, his voice calm and gentle, as if he lived in a completely different world. "If you know things before they happen, you'll do everything in your power to change them. As a result, you only add insult to injury. But, if you must know what to do, confess. Go find Arlen, and tell him your dirty little secret. Maybe he'll take it as a sign of remorse and consider you for something special."

Sara huffed, almost ripping her keys and purse from the hook, and yanked open the door, slamming it behind her.

When she reached the Embassy, Sara dropped her car in the parking lot. She smashed the tail end of a vehicle, and dented the door of another as she stepped out and started for the entrance. "Where is he?" Her voice boomed inside the quiet lobby, and she banged her purse on the receptionist's desk.

The receptionist touched his finger to his lips. "Your voice, Madam."

"I don't care about my voice. Where is the Arch Ganton?"

He tapped at the display panel, "he's already left."

"For?"

"To go retrieve Marqisian for the ceremony, it begins in a half hour."

Sara frantically pulled her hair as she twisted about. "Where!" She smacked her palms down on the counter. "Where does it start!?"

"Madam, if you don't calm down, I'm going to have to ask you to leave —"

"Okay," she sighed, "will you tell me where the ceremony begins, please?" She gritted her teeth, and narrowed her eyes, forming a heated, catty smile.

"South Main Street," he said.

"Good," Sara snatched her purse and started for her car.

Main Street was flooded with people. Arlen wrapped his arms around Lellayla's waist, steadying her on the pedestal of the executive float. Her cinnamon tone gave way to a flustered, soft pink blush.

"Oh my," she said. She had not expected so many people.

Arlen pressed his lips to the familiar skin of her neck. Her lavender perfume offset the salty flavor of her flesh. "Relax," he said, his tone calm, nonchalant. "Just smile and wave, they only want to see you." He peered over her shoulder at Marqisian. "Am I right, boy?"

"Yep!" Marqi said, wringing the rail of the pedestal.

Lel crossed her arms. "You really shouldn't groom him to be a politician," she huffed.

"You're right. I should be grooming him to be a college drop-out, and an army delinquent, just like his daddy!" Arlen crooned, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue, laughing when he realized that a news drone had descended to get a close up on their faces. He knew the image would be featured in the tabloids for a week, and Lellayla looked furious.

"Ugh," she huffed, and pushed his arms off of her. The floats had barely enough room to pass between the barriers keeping the eager citizens back. Lellayla waved at the people, her lips blossoming into a full, brilliant smile.

Arlen stepped away from her. Sitting down, he crossed his legs and laced his fingers, holding them to his chin, intently looking ahead. As the parade approached the mid-way of Main Street's length, Arlen restrained his relief: half way did not mean done. He didn't want the news drones to record his delight as he watched Lel enchant the masses with her smile, because he knew Sara. Somehow, even when absent, she kept him weary. Thankfully, she was always busy being a doctor. So why was he on guard? She probably didn't watch the morning news to know about the parade in the first place.

Yeah, she didn't know, he assured himself, as he sat back, and the executive float passed into the center of the blocked off intersection of Main and Lattpols. Content with the parade's progress, he did not notice the sound until he caught Marqisian starting up at the sky. By then, the roar of old, rattling combustion engines pierced through the parade music.

"Arlen," Sara roared. She put her car in landing mode, and dropped it in front of the executive float. The floatsman stopped the vehicle, and the platform came to a jerky halt. "What is the meaning of all this?" She stepped out of the car and invited herself up onto the platform.

"Sara," Arlen sighed.

"No, I want to know right this instant." She pointed accusingly at Lellayla. "Who is this woman, and what is she doing where I belong?"

"Lellayla is my wife, Sara," he said as Lel stepped around Sara and huddled next to Arlen. "She is the Gantoness Regnant, you need to respect her."

"I ought be Gantoness Regnant. I am Marqisian's mother and by law, the woman who has the firstborn of the Arch Ganton is the rightful Regnant."

"It's funny that you mention this now, of all times, and here of all places, Sara," Arlen said, sharpening his tone. "At first I thought you were pulling my leg, that when you got pregnant there was no way the child could have been mine. Then I thought you got pregnant on purpose — because I know you, Sara. You never do anything without some underlying purpose. But the thing about it all is I don't remember ever getting naked around you. So that can mean only one thing: Marqisian is not my son."

In that one moment, the whole city became deathly silent to the point that Yonathael could pick up on the sound of a bead of sweat splattering on pavement. His transfixed gaze was on Sara, as she appeared on the screen.

▼ Say it, he urged, Tell him what you did.

Sara swallowed, her knuckles popping as she gradually made her fists. "I used a narcotic sedative." She watched Arlen's brow rise.

"What?" he asked.

"I drugged you, and I... strapped you to the bed. I mounted you, as often as I could, until the test results came back positive."

He slowly bobbed his head. "So I was right. The entire time I've known you, there never was an 'us,' or even a Marqster. It was all about you getting powerful."

"Yes," she said in a low tone.

Arlen tapped his fist to his forehead. That same hand came down and flattened over his mouth. His watery eyes burned, and his temples pounded and ached. He could not look at Sara, who remained calm and composed, utterly devoid of remorse.

Then he forced himself to focus on Sara's face, narrowing his eyes, filtering through his reasons. What did it matter now? The hand cannon was right there, in the holster on his hip, and he pulled it out, pointing the barrel square at the tip of her nose. "I should have done this ten years ago." He cocked the hammer back.

"Arlen, what are you doing?" Lel said, gripping his arm. "Arlen, Arlen, put the gun down."

His eye twitched, staring into Sara's soul. "You have no idea how badly that tormented me. Ten years questioning my own son, all that time trying to mend pain in my hearts. A pain that I could never identify, that I could never understand. Ten years, Sara, ten years. That doesn't mean a thing to you."

"It never did," Sara said, lifting her chin.

"Give me the gun, Arlen," Lel urged. "Don't let her manipulate and control you. You're stronger than this, you know what's right."

"Yeah, I do." He pulled the trigger, the barrel flashed with a loud, hollow bang.

Sara jumped, holding her shoulders near her ears. When she opened her tightly shut eyes, a hole in the float smoldered between her and them. The sight of Arlen's unabated rancor chilled her blood, even as she watched him hand his companion firearm to Lellayla.

"I loved you, Sara," he said. "But as of now I'm taking custody of Marqisian, and I am amending his name. He will no longer to be associated with the 'Malyth' surname. In three hours it will be in writing, stamped and official, with the entirety of Konstaneah's public as witnesses. But for your sake, Sara, I hope I never see you again."

"Arlen, wait —"

"Keep — out — of my sight." He lay his hand on Marqisian's back. "Come on, kid, lets go." Arlen did not look back as he helped Lel down from the float. But Marqisian did, solemnly watching as Sara stood there, gradually getting farther and farther, as they walked away.

The door swung open and banged the wall. Sara hurried in, and slammed the door shut, leaning against it, face flushed. She met Yonathael's ever so calm and separated gaze. "H-he tried to k-kill me," she stammered.

"Atrocious," he commented.

She watched his unchanging face, as the chime of her cell pierced through television's audio. She fished it out of her purse and almost dropped it on the floor as she fumbled to tap the accept icon. "H-hello?"

"Ms. Malyth?" asked the feminine voice on the other end of the line.

"Speaking," she said.

"This is Gennevier, with the Human Resources department for Professor Dannes and Colleagues Hospital. How are you?"

"I'm fine —"

"That's wonderful to know, dearie. I'm calling to inform you not to return to the hospital; we don't need you anymore."

Sara was speechless.

"Have a nice day," Gennevier said, and hung up.

She stared, holding the phone to her ear. She realized Yonathael had gone to the fridge, returned, and sat on the other end of the couch sipping a glass of juice. "You," she hissed and glared. "You knew this would happen."

He tapped the remote and changed the channel. "So?"

She got in front of the flat panel television. "Tell me how I can fix this."

"You have to lose before you can gain," he said.

"Cut the cryptic crap."

"Oh-ho," he chuckled, and grinned. "I wanted to make you an offer that night you found me. But I didn't think you would hear me out."

She glared at him and cross her arms. "For what?"

His eyes narrowed and his grin broadened until perversion showed on his face. "What if I told you that my real name is Mokallai, and that I am Destiny in-the-flesh?"

"I'd have reported you insane," she scoffed. "That night, anyway."

He nodded. "Yes, you would have on that night. But now, what do you think? Sara, look, I know right this instant you're not going to appreciate that I coaxed you into telling Arlen, and that as a result you lost your son, your job, your reputation as a 'decent' woman — but all that isn't going to matter. I need a woman like you for something big. Bigger than all the kingdoms of Dyjian, and, as a gift, I promise you power and status beyond your imagination. All I ask is that you trust me." Yonathael offered her his hand.

Sara skeptically looked at him. "What if I refuse?"

His eyes flashed. "You can't refuse."

Her hands twitched, and her spine stiffened. Jerkily, she moved towards him, her arm shaking as she reached for Yonathael's hand. She took hold of him, unable to stop herself, compelled by Mokallai, and he lead her from the living room on down the hall into Marqisian's bedroom.

After she stepped in, he closed the door behind her, and motioned towards the bed. "Sit," he said.

She plopped down on the edge of the bed, watching him.

"Lay down," he said as he peered through the window and then closed the blinds. He turned to the bed and she sat, her legs stretched out. "All the way." He motioned with a sweep of his arm.

Hesitantly, Sara reclined.

Yonathael's mind wandered to the straps under the bed. He strode over and gazed down at her.

Perfect silence formed between the two. "What?" she asked, sharply.

He got one knee on the bed beside her. In a wide arc he landed his other knee near her other side.

Sara blinked, realizing that Yonathael straddled her. She started to push, but in an instant he slid forward and pinned her wrists down with his knees. The sheen of his golden eyes became a menacing aura as they rolled upwards in their sockets. The white of his scleras drained from him, dribbling down his cheeks as jerky, thick streams.

She panted, awed and terrified, unable to utter a word as the vivacious, arrhythmic pearly streams snaked through the air. "Th-this is imp-p-possible," she stammered, finally, as the streams pooled above her face.

"Like being older than the dawn of Humankind?" His eyes returned to their rightful position, focused on her face, widening his gaze. His irises were thick bands of gold floating in deep obsidian pools.

She swallowed and nodded, shivering violently.

"What is with you scientific human types?" The question was worth asking. If there were any to be described as sitting on the apex of obliviousness, it was the scientific sorts. Not that they were idiots. But at the same time they were dull, most of them; unable to comprehend the nature of Dyjian. As he bent down and let his lips near the lobe of her ear, he cupped his hand over her mouth. "It's because I'm far from human," he said.

The white puddle dove down from the air, stabbing into Sara's eyes. It flowed into her, and her tongue repeatedly swept against Yonathael's hand. He muffled her screams, his apathetic visage staring blankly at the wall, until finally her thrashing subsided. She lay there quiet, motionless, not recognizing the ceiling above her.

"That was easier than I thought," he said.

She groaned.

"Get some rest, Sara. It'll all start making sense soon enough." He stepped out into the hall, closing and locking the door behind him.
Awakening.

Eiynvas, the 12th day in the month of Korec, 7╥451.

The return of his senses was painstakingly gradual. From regaining the ability to distinguish light, down to the color of each shape and the texture it had. The closet had collapsed with the rest of the building, yet, he noticed that he was under some kind of soft-white bubble that kept the debris at least two and a half feet above him.

Rollond couldn't relax. As he wiggled his fingers, he felt the sensation of thick, cold goop, as if he were still wedged in the tank with 'He who is like Rain.' It made more sense to him as the tingling in his arms subsided, and he moved, slowly, noting that same viscous feeling:

He was able to share the living experience of someone else — this Ashenzsi. It was akin to being inside him, part of him, existing as if a component of Ashenzsi's consciousness. The very thought perturbed Rollond.

As he laid there with So'yi, who was curled up beside him, he heard something like a whisper within his mind:

'I'm so tired,' Ashenzsi says, his vision starting to blur.

'Hey, hey, stay with me.' I begin to feel faint, like I am fading away.

'Sorry,' he says. 'I just feel so weak.'

'Ashenzsi?' There's a stir inside of him: his heart flutters and his core tenses. I'm not sure if he likes me calling him that. 'Can you..."dip" into me?' An awkward thing to ask, I think.

But, he pauses. 'Yes,' he finally says. 'Looks like you're under something.'

I feel him want to lift my hand, to look at me. I indulge his curiosity: my hand twitches at first, but I let him lift it. Through my eyes he inspects the back, and then my palm. He flexes my fingers, and though I am astounded, I sense his grave hesitancy.

'What's the matter?'

'You are an Uunan,' he says. 'A pasty-white, heavy-handed Uunaninjyn.'

I get that he does not like this about me, and I can understand why: it's not like anthropomorphic Gypsy rats put him in the tank. 'I can't help what I am.'

He stays quiet.

'I do want to help you.' I feel his skepticism, and he takes his time with my statement. I know that he's thinking, but I can't penetrate into his thoughts. It's like there's an untouchable barrier there that keeps me from getting into that part of him, and it makes me wonder.

'Tsche,' he says.

'Can I ask you one thing, though? What is an "Uunaninjyn"?'

'It means "human-male," and Uunanifha is "human-female." We do not have the words "Man" and "Woman" like Uunani do.'

'Why not? I mean... so what do you call your males and females?'

'Shojen,' he says, 'I am a Shojen, the other is Rayiha.'

'I see, so what does that make her?' I glance down at So'yi, and his heart jumps.

'Sweet little goji, she is well, oh!' he croons, wanting me to embrace her, but I don't allow it.

'As soon as I get free from here, I'm bringing her to you. Promise me you'll stay alive until I get there.'

'I promise!' I can even feel the sting in his eyes, the ache in his temples, the lump in his throat. 'I do, I swear, I will!'

The floor quaked underneath me.

So'yi poked her head up, her ears moving to find the origin of thuds belonging to a pair of gargantuan alloy feet. Smooth metal fingers pried through the collapsed roof, scooping away debris in heaping handfuls. The girl yelped and ducked behind Rollond, hissing and baring her teeth at the huge, shining metal robots.

"Hey, TIP, glad to have found you. Everything in working order?" asked the man inside the robot.

"Everything's passed the S-check, unless a Med says otherwise. I don't see reason to grind. I might use a hand, though."

"Rec'd and ready, sir!"

Rollond motioned to where he wanted the man to place his robotic palm. The back of the robot's hand had barely touched the floor, when So'yi began growling fiercely at it. She clung to Rollond's shin, bearing her weight back, wanting to stop him from stepping onto the robot's palm.

"Hey, hey, stop that," he said.

"But it looks unnatural, it might try to hurt us." She peeked around his leg at the waiting hand.

"Nonsense," he assured her, and pushed her into the palm of the robot's hand.

She squealed and clung to its thumb.

He stepped on and the robot lifted them up from the wreckag,e setting them down gently on the city's top tier, Highbar. Several humanoid vehicles towered over them, and So'yi gawked up as one of the robots sliced through hunks of metal with its fingertips.

So'yi tugged on Rollond's pants leg. "What sort of aelyth is that, where a big metal Uunan can break apart things by his bare fingers?"

He looked at her funny. "Whats an 'Aelyth'?"

She frowned. "What nothings you do know. Aelyth is the Power of Spirit — what makes you live; what caused, and sustains, our world. It is granted to the Kyusoa to use, but not to Uunani. Because Uunani are not meant to use aelyth." She pointed at the robot. "So what aelyth is this?"

"It's not aelyth at all," Rollond said. "He's equipped with a precision cutting device in his fingertips, makes cleaving through junk easier."

So'yi huffed and flattened back her ears. If only Ashenzsi were here, she thought. They would already be at the Soakin Commune by now, but, no, he had to go get captured and stuffed into a tank — the tank. Once more she tugged the amulet from her hair, that distressed look returning to her features. "Ashenzsi," she shouted, tugging on Rollond's clothes. "Please, you must come!"

She started for the place where she had come from, where she had materialized within the theater. But the whole building had turned to a smoldering heap of rubble, and she stopped, seeing that she could not go back the way she had come. Her shoulders drooped and she flopped her hands down. She sat there, tearfully, not knowing what to do, wondering if she had lost him forever, if he was going to waste away and die as others had done.

Rollond could not bear the agonizing, wet and glossy look of her low-spirited eyes. He stepped over and plucked the amulet from her listless, open hand. The amulet was the signet of the Forty-Fourth, exactly like the mark on the brow of the tower at Nexus that belonged to the Naelun governing over that tribe.

As the Prince scooped the girl up off the floor, the Executor-Prefect kept a keen watch on them. Anileon kept wanting to flick his ears at every word Rollond said to the girl.

"Let's go find your friend," Rollond said.

"Okay." So'yi sniffed.

Anileon narrowed his eyes. Since when could a man speak Tswaa'ii? A human's tongue was too broad, short, and fat to produce the undulating movements that Tswaa'ii required. Yet the words flowed out of the Prince's mouth as if he had been born a Kyusoa.

The office had an eerie chill. The air had not settled since Fylus's resignation and his former office was gloomy and dark, even with the visors open. The meticulous order Fylus maintained remained in such a way that the dust inherent to an indoor facility did not settle on the desk, the shelves, and furniture.

As he stepped in, a cold shiver rippled the skin on the back of Rollond's neck and trickled down his spine in icy jabs. Leftover tension permeated the room, making the air thick and palpable as So'yi nipped the amulet out of his stiff grip and bounded up onto the desk, gripping the edges with her feet.

"Someone filled by malcontent does not leave his den clean," she said.

The Prince shook his head. "Like I have some idea what that means."

She smiled up at him, wagging her tail. "Of course you don't." So'yi jumped down from the desk. She scratched at the floor, her nose pressed to the carpet as she sniffed, lifting her head and snorting as she bumped the base of the bookshelf. She climbed up to the third shelf, pulled a book onto the floor, and tensed, expecting the shelf beside her to move and reveal a secret passage into Fylus's secret lair. Or maybe a portal would open, or better yet, they would vanish and appear in the den where his preliminary plans were strewn about like discarded candy wrappers.

But the shelves did not move. Nothing changed, just the book laying on the floor. So'yi glared at the book case. "This is supposed to —" she pushed against the other books. "Mooove!" She growled, and the case still did not budge. She roared and clawed at the books on the shelves, throwing them on the floor. Finally she flopped down on a shelf, crossed her legs and pouted, glaring out the window as the Prince picked through some of the titles on the floor.

"I thought we replaced these old codices," he said, and blew the dust off the cover. He opened it and the pages were yellowed with a fine line of dark brown on the edge. He had just turned the title page, when he noticed a hole where a word belonged. The hole ran deep, stopping a number of pages in, and as he thumbed through the book, he noticed that the holes were irregularly shaped, and there were lots of them within the book. He checked a second, and then a third. Not every book had holes in the pages, but he lay the ones that did on the desk.

So'yi jumped down. "What do you think this means?" She asked as she pushed her nose to the pages.

"I'm not sure," he said. "But I'm certain I can find out." He glanced at her and motioned for her to come with him, tucking five books under his arm.

She jumped up onto him, and gripped his shoulder with her feet.

When he came to the conference room, Rollond bit down on his tongue to keep his smug grin from showing. He knew the look on Anileon's face was going to be priceless, as he stepped in. He was over two hours late when he arrived, and the forty-three attending Naeluns exchanged gestures, glancing at him as the Executor-Prefect painstakingly rose.

"Protocol," Anileon said.

"Emergency," Rollond replied.

"No," Anileon said, slamming his palms on the glossy surface of the table's holographic panel. "We are in a meeting. You will not deliberately make yourself tardy and then just barge in like the sharr's paw of individuals."

"Emergency," Rollond said again. "The meeting can wait." He split the books down the middle and lay them on the panel, flicking through the light around them. The whole conference table went dark, except for some hovering words:

Initiating Oral Recognition mode — please state a command.

"Analyze," Rollond said, and like an image, scanner a strip of lights on the table's surface became bright.

"Abort," Anileon said, calmly, and the lights dimmed.

"What are you doing?" Rollond looked at Anileon with furrowed brows.

The Executor-Prefect motioned towards the doors.

Rollond grunted."Analyze," he commanded and the lights started again.

"Abort," Anileon said. The lights died, he motioned towards the door again. "Rollond, leave."

"What part of an emergency don't you understand —"

"Protocol," Anileon said. "Now get out."

"I damn well know how this kingdom runs, and the state of urgency overrides standard procedure," Rollond snapped.

"Not for personal crisis," Anileon said, unaffected.

Rollond narrowed his eyes and squared his shoulders, menacingly regarding Anileon. "This is my domain," he said. "I am the Head here —"

"Not yet you're not, Prince." Anileon's composure cleaved through Rollond. "I am the presiding Officer in Power on behalf of Mylisto Alekzandyr. You will by no means override me. Now leave with dignity, before I disembowel your ego like the young Swankard you are."

Rollond's knuckles crackled. He kept his fists by his side, though he wanted to punch Anileon's head clean off of his shoulders. The Executor-Prefect's ballsy air made his skin ripple, and his temples pound. He knew a stupid idea when he found one. "Alright," he growled, backing out of the room.

He paced just outside the doors, head bowed, teeth gritted, scowling, as he repeatedly popped his knuckles. The girl watched him, her tail swishing in the other direction when he reached the exact spot where he turned the first time, and started another rut to the other end.

"What's the matter?" So'yi asked.

Finally, he sat down and held his crown between his thumb and first finger. "I want this to be over with," he said. "I want to go back to being..." He whirled his hand in the air. It was difficult for him to express his thoughts, because it made no sense. He gave his mother and Anileon so much hassle that it was clear what he wanted. Yet, as compelled by some unseen force, he seemed to accept being dragged towards what he saw as inevitable.

Or else, where would he go? Where could he go? And do what while he was there? There was no escape from Alekzandrya, no matter how hard he wished he wasn't Rollond Alekzandyr, he was fated to take the throne.

"I want to be normal," he sighed.

So'yi perked her ears. "Normal?"

Rollond nodded. "Normal people are free. They do what they want, go where they please — they don't have this looming shadow of expectation constantly over them. Like, because I was born, I have to fill the shoes of my father." He grimaced and furrowed his brows. "Because I was born, So'yi! I was born!"

"Normal people are born, too," she said, grinning at him. "No one has a choice over who they're born to, it's something even I can't help." She paused, as he mulled over what she said.

He parted his lips to speak, but So'yi raised her hand and silenced him.

"I will tell you a secret," she said, as she pushed her head under his arm, plopped down in his lap and laced her toes together, holding her feet near her hips. "The events that happen to us, make us; so do the things we do when these events happen. You are the grand sum of your choices, and not what 'fate' tells you to be."

He leaned forward, transfixed by her milky gaze.

"You understand?"

"Yeah." Rollond nodded.

"Good." She showed him her teeth by a broad smile, and hopped down from his lap at the sound of the doors opening.

Anileon's gaze was tired, yet cold as he stood in the door frame looking down at Rollond. "You may return to your matters," he said, stepping aside and motioning for the Prince to come.

The system did not take long to analyze the holes in the book. One by one, they hovered in midair, and the pages flipped faster than Rollond could watch. Within seconds, the whole process finished, and the system compiled a cubic image of the position and the shape the holes made in each book.

Rollond rubbed his chin, staring into the amoeban shapes.

"This is your emergency," Anileon said. "Business can wait for some blobs that possess no thread of sense."

"It's not the blobs," Rollond said. He enlarged the blots and flicked up a map of the city. He superimposed the images, where the Grand Hall used to be was a large red spot on the three dimensional map, and it turned purple when one of the large blue blots melded into it. "It's Fylus."

"I have to agree that he must be taken into custody after his recent display of idiocy," Anileon snorted. "Though, what this has to do with anything —"

Rollond zoomed out from the city. He aligned the corners of the images over the domain of Alekzandrya. A small splotch in a cluster within the capital turned purple, precisely where the Grand Hall used to be. Several others collected in major cities, spread out among the forty-four states, except for Westkads.

Rollond glanced at Anileon, and noticed that his eye twitched. "How did you know to..."

He shrugged. "I didn't. I just wanted to play with the conference table."

The hot, humid atmosphere hardened the salty dunes, and on the gnarly crests perched several beasts. Fylus gritted his teeth as he leaned on the console of his facility, observing them. The distressing shriek of the Tyiha sounded every five minutes, and he made sure that the computer varied the pitch, tone, and frequency of the cry. Yet the beasts sat there, heads swaying, jaws chattering, as if the daunting squeal of their mates meant little to them.

His men were laying low in the shadows between the dunes, armed with electromagnetic netting rods, waiting, like Fylus, for one of the beasts to come down and investigate. He ground his fingers together, pushing harder with each passing second, until he finally slammed his fist down on the com button, and let his frustration seep across the wireless network.

"Get them!" he seethed.

"But, sir," said one of his hired hands, "those are Trap-jaws up there."

He flicked about the console and zoomed the camera up onto the heads of the beasts. It was like staring into the visage of a tyrannosaurus rex. Their teeth were as long as Fylus's hand from his wrist to the end of his middle finger, socketed into awe-inspiring jaws that, he was certain, could shred the back end of a tank in a single snap. "So what if they're Trap-jaws? They're animals. Stupid, filthy, beasts, and they're up against a slew of competent men. There's really nothing to be worried about, they're more afraid of you than you are of them. Now go get one before my aelyth supply goes completely dead on me!"

He watched them stand, clutching the poles that glowed cool cyan-white at the far ends. His men edged three steps forward and the Trap-jaws stopped being so social, rocking forward onto their forelegs and standing, the muscles of their thick, long necks rippling as they cocked their heads and glanced at Fylus's men with glossy, keen eyes. His henchmen started to creep back towards the facility, unaware of the hole that had opened in the shifting sand behind them.

It was when the bottom jaw of a Sandwyrk opened at its split and its vicegrip mandibles clamped around one of Fylus's men that they realized they were easy pickings in a trap. More holes opened like gaping mouths, as if the desert itself were trying to swallow them whole. His men stumbled backwards as a Sandwyrk shot up from the opening. Its mandibles snapped around the waists of Fylus's men so hard, they were nearly cut in two. Then, thrashing and screaming, the great, serpentine beast dragged them down into the hole.

"Incompetent fools," Fylus muttered. He pushed the emergency lock-down switch, and tautonium plates ascended, hugging the exterior walls of the facility, blocking the exits. The smuggest grin lit up his face, despite the shrill screams of his men as the long, bony blades of the Sandwyrks cut through them as if they were made of water.

In the midst of his observance, the peculiar tone of his phone went off. Fylus fished it out of his vest and squinted at the number. Unknown Sender, it said. He answered it anyway. "Hello?"

"Fylus," a cool, smooth and detached voice said. "Fylus Medduin Yisliad?"

"Who wants to know," Fylus snapped.

"Oh. Sorry. Yes, Mokallai, that's who inquires," he said.

"So what do you want?"

"Interesting that you should ask that," Mokallai said. "There is something of dire importance to me that is currently in your possession, and I wanted to ask if you would be so kind as to release it."

"Something I have?"

"The contents of tank two-six-four-nine."

Fylus thumbed through the inventory holograph. Two thousand six hundred forty-nine contained the heartiest Kyuosa he had. "Why is this one so important?"

"The question you should be asking is: why is this one critical to your survival."

"Is that a threat?" Fylus said, his pitch rising, unable to believe what he heard.

"Perhaps," Mokallai said. "The Prince is coming, looking specifically for that shojen. It is in your best interest, in the long run, that you release him now."

Fylus scoffed. "And how in the hell would Rollond know about one specific animal wedged in a tank?"

"He shares a bond with that one."

Fylus paused, his eye twitched.

"A very special bond," Mokallai said, starting to sound distant. "Almost as if he were, possibly, this one and that. Yes, I know a lot about Rollond, and the creature you keep in the tank. You see, Fylus, the nature of this world requires that you take nothing for its face value."

He paused, uncertain if Mokallai was a wisecrack cynic or outright crazy. "What if I refuse to do as you say?" Fylus's solemn tone revealed earnest consideration of the possibilities. Every muscle in his body tensed as he waited, nothing but inert silence occupying his ears.

"Expect to fail," Mokallai said.

This apathy made chills ripple through the marrow of Fylus's bones and rise to the surface of his skin; his hearts strained. "Why should I believe you?" he asked, and the line went dead. An image of the kyusoa appeared on in the hologram, and he looked at it intently. His hand edged towards the release button, but he curled his fingers and shook his head, rescinding the idea. This is crazy, too crazy to be real, he assured himself, a fleeting assurance as the alarms came to life with a shrill shriek.

In the hologram a sub-chamber glowed red-yellow: the containment warehouse was breeched.

The warehouse was sealed from wall to wall, no doors, or windows, just some vents that connected to a complex network of filters, fans and air conditioners to preserve viable air, but that was it. Its operation room was immaculate, sterile, and looking out over the clusters of tanks. An underwhelming, heated nausea rumbled in Rollond's stomach as he stepped to the console. Its numbered, green lights were gradually changing color, from ones that were yellow-green, to red-orange, and finally a deep, solemn red that glowed intensely. They changed color in relation to the health of the creatures, and most of them were already dead, if not dying. He searched the console for a release button, pressing on the dark orange light labeled '2649', but it did nothing.

Static sounded over the speakers, then a ring, and finally, laughter. "Ha-ah! I'm shocked you discovered my secret —"

"Cut the crap, Fylus," Rollond said. "How do I release whatever's in twenty-six-forty-nine?"

"I'm not telling you!" Fylus hissed. "Not that it matters, you'll never get that animal out of the tank. Haa haa."

Rollond rolled his eyes, and searched the console again. If ever he had met a cheeky bastard, Fylus would have to take second place. He grinned smugly at the thought, that no one topped him in cheeky bastardlyness. At least, not yet. He deduced that the buttons had nothing to do with releasing things. But one of them had something to do with lifting things, and he pushed it. A ramp reached up from the containment floor to the command overhead. A sealed door hissed, and quietly slid open as a platform came to a halt at the top of the conveyor.

He stepped onto the platform, glancing down to make sure the girl was with him when he pressed the down button. The lift hissed and started its steady descent. She jumped down before the lift stopped. When it did and the guard rails lowered, Rollond strode patiently after So'yi, who veered ahead of him in the maze of dark, bubbling tanks.

The opacity of the goop made the silent, pale visages of the creatures within no less haunting: their heads bowed and their lips stuck in a listless, twisted frown. The eeriest thing was the positions of their arms and legs as Rollond passed by. Most of the creatures were vapid, except for the occasional dull scraping sound of talons against the thick glass, and the muffled plap of a flattened palm, as, with head bowed, the creature moved towards Rollond, and pressed against the tank.

He stopped and watched one do it: creeping forward with no visible motion until its face pressed flat. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, as he watched the creature's hand crawl up level with his face, and its fingers curl, raking against the glass.

What would it do if it got loose?

He shook his head, shivering, and shuffled past it. Deep into the clusters, two thousand six hundred forty-nine was filled with thick, bright blue goop. Rollond could barely make out Ashenzsi's stringy black hair as So'yi tapped on the tank. His eyelids fluttered and his gaze struggled to stay still, focused on her. His eyes flickered the color of jade, and he jolted, sluggishly cocking his head to the side.

'Give me a second to find how to get you out of here.' Rollond searched the top of the tank, thinking that the release button must have been somewhere on it since it was absent at the warehouse command. His fingers bumped into nothing, the top and all of its sides were smooth, and the tubes and cables were well secured to its top, there was no way to release Ashenzsi at the tank.

Rollond's hearts began to lag, and the tardy thumps of Ashenzsi's pulse banged in his ears.

'Let it be over,' Ashenzsi said.

'What? — No.' Rollond checked the tank a second time, pausing as his vision blurred and dimmed. He shook his head. 'You made me a promise — '

'That I would live until you came. Now you have come, I have held my promise.'

A deep sense of helplessness and gripping listlessness surged through Rollond's body, forcing him to his knees. 'This isn't fair!' Rollond thundered within his mind. He staggered to his feet, steadying himself against a nearby tank. 'You want to die, you can do it on your own. But for the love of all things true, stop draining me!' He gritted his teeth and scowled at Ashenzsi's listless, floating form. He formed his fist, drew in a deep breath and held it, until his fist broke through the thick glass. He watched it happen as if in slow motion: the tank rippled and cracked, the goop bowed inward before the glass went white and scattered on the floor like spilled sugar.

The goop rushed down, and Ashenzsi slipped off of the feeding tube, sprawling limply over bits of glass, his eyes fluttering until Rollond took the circlet off of his head.

Ashenzsi looked up into the abysmally deep, cobalt eyes of the white-haired man, his broad palm and thick fingers stretched out, offered to help him up. "Why do you help me?" He asked.

"Because I choose to," Rollond said. "I figure the sooner you get out of here, the faster my life goes back to being what it was."

Ashenzsi shoved Rollond's hand away. He flipped over and pushed up from the floor, the glass crunching under his palms. He wiped goop and shards from his naked body. "I don't want your help," he growled, flattening back his ears and bearing his keen teeth when Rollond took a step towards him.

"Fine, you go your way, I go mine," Rollond said.

Ashenzsi watched Rollond disappear into the control room. "So'yi," he grunted, starting in the opposite direction Rollond had went.

"Su'u batzuh," she murmured, loping up to him on all fours. "Why did you send him off?"

"Because he is Humankind," he said. "All of their gains are by selfish means." He stopped on the other end of the containment room, prying a loose vent off of its hinges and motioning to So'yi. His eyes narrowed as she stopped and rubbed one hand over the other. He knew her silent expression of concern, and it bothered him. "My sweet goji, why are you irritated?"

"I don't think this is good," she said. "He helped me. I have nothing, but he helped me, and so you." She looked up at him, her frowning lips magnifying her big, white eyes. There was something liquid about them, something stirring, inciting, that as he returned her gaze, he could not help being swallowed by a sense of compassion and urgency.

He blinked and shook his head, then picked her up, and put her in the vent. "Fake pity, I promise you." He crawled into the vent after her. He had to keep himself low to the floor, but it was spacious enough for her to stand up in, and she sluggishly skipped ahead.

She went as far as the vertical section, where he hoped she would go up, but she turned, and sat down lacing her toes together.

He grimaced. "So'yi —"

"I am not going without him," she said frankly. "This is wrong, and I want to know that we returned his good."

He rolled his eyes. "Little goji, I am not going to tell you a third time that —"

"No. At his base, he was kind —"

"So'yi!" he snarled. "You mind your place when you speak with me."

She lowered her head and straightened herself, pressing her stomach to the floor. "Do'u, schasznaht'ha," she murmured, "the disrespect of my maw bears guilt for me. Yet," she dared to raise her tone, even a little bit. "I cannot ignore my rou'u."

He drew in a deep breath and sighed, knowing how difficult she could be when the pangs of her conscious got to her. "Your heart is too sweet." He could not stay mad at her heartwarming face, her smile and her waggling tail, but he kept his frown and his irritated gaze on her as he backed out of the vent.

The command room was empty. Ashenzsi stopped and serpentined his fingers in the consoles light, taking his hand back when a loud cry and a thump sounded through a narrow hall that lead to a stairwell. Someone yelped and banged against a rail as they fell five floors to the bottom. He ducked into the stairwell and looked up.

"For the last time, where is the release switch?" Rollond said, his tone flat and grave.

"I—I don't k-know," stammered the man whom had his throat clutched tightly in Rollond's grip.

Rollond leaned his victim over the rail, pushing him until all but his knees and calves were on the other side. "One," he said, his tone sinister.

"I swear, I swear, I don't know!"

"Two," Rollond said, his fingers loosening from around the man's neck, who froze, unable to sputter a word through his gas mask. "Three." Rollond opened his hand, and the man dropped from his grasp.

Ashenzsi leapt into the center of the stairwell, barely snaring the masked man with his hand-like foot and swinging him onto the platform. The man flopped over on his side, panting furiously, as Ashenzsi stepped over him. "What is your problem?" He glared up at Rollond. "That is no way to treat your fellows."

"I got a little angry." Rollond shrugged. "Besides, he's from He'Don."

Ashenzsi blinked, furrowing his brows. "What does that have to do with it?"

Rollond scoffed and headed up the stairwell.

"Really," Ashenzsi said, jumping from rail to rail, ascending the stairwell faster than Rollond and dropping down in front of him. "What does that have to do with it?"

Rollond squared his shoulders and put his fist to his chest. "That strong thing you feel about humans, that's how Alekzandrans feel about Hedonites. Cut-throat and sleazy, ill-gotten mylfheik." He spat.

Ashenzsi flicked his ear. It was a sense of repulsion and loathing that all Kyusoakin harbored towards Humankind for being presumptuous beings — striding about with their heads in the clouds, ignorant, self-concerned, unable to comprehend the impact of their actions; disunited cesspool of undeserving flesh. "They are Uunani, just like you. If he is worth cursing and spitting at, how much more so you are," he said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rollond said.

"You are all ill-gotten offspring," Ashenzsi said, matter-of-factly. Satisfaction warmed his stomach as he stretched and yawned to keep his visage from forming a smug smirk, just as he watched Rollond's face go from cocky to a furrow-browed expression of insult.

"I'll have you know that I am..."

"You are?" Ashenzsi asked.

"Going to get out of here," Rollond said.

'That wasn't it, was it?' Ashenzsi raised his brows.

Rollond pushed past him and started up the stairs. 'What does it matter to you what I was going to say?'

'It just seemed so important to you...' Ashenzsi kept his distance behind Rollond, ascending the stairs like he did, like a man, on the palms of his feet, despite how often he bumped his toes, and how awkward stepping up was on the springy joints of his legs.

'Getting out of here is important.'

'What about releasing my kin?'

Rollond gripped the door knob, and glanced back at Ashenzsi. "I never promised you that," he said.

"This will never cease to baffle me. First your mother's lackey expertly thwarts my plans with a mere flick of his wrist. And then you," Fylus's voice seethed over the speakers. "You show up by yourself, completely uninvited and proceed to put your fist through four inches of isotopic, high-polymer industrial crystal."

"Maybe you should've used steel," Rollond said.

"Next time I will —"

"And I'll put my fist through that, too." He was confident in the abnormality of his inhuman strength.

Fylus scoffed. "Cocky swankard, aren't you?"

"You have no idea," Rollond said, thickly, smoothly, teeming with pride.

Fylus laughed. "That's a challenge I'm afraid I won't be able to personally accept, given the situation at the surface of this place. But, it seems you're up for a trial or two."

The lights went off, even the soft glow of the holographic console. The power went out, and the emergency generators came on. The console chimed, and started up, contrary to emergency operations, and Fylus's face reappeared. He looked beside himself, smug and selfishly content as the doors shut and the locks clicked into the place. The air flow of the room was sealed, except for a sole ceiling vent.

Rollond's cocky attitude quickly shifted into a bent frown.

"I'd like to see you get out of this place," Fylus said, his laughter filled the room. It rolled off the walls, and reverberated from the vents, everywhere, sounding off of everything, as the floating disembodied head bobbed in his chortle.

Rollond put his fist through the console. The steel bowed in and the wires strained as he tore them up through the hole. They sputtered, sparked, and the console went dead.

So'yi churred, and Ashenzsi got down on the floor, holding his hand over her mouth.

Rollond could not smell the gas from the vent, but they could. He pulled his shirt off and ripped it, tying a part of it around his mouth and handing the rest of it to Ashenzsi.

"You couldn't possibly put your fist through the door?" Ashenzsi coughed.

Rollond inspected it. "No," he said. The door was a slab of metal with at least five inches socketed into the frame on all sides, and sealed airtight. He knocked on it and from the sound he could tell that behind it was reinforcements four feet thick, likely all the same, if not stronger metal. "I can't put my fist into something thicker than my arm is long."

"You just put your arm into a console, and through four inches of — of — whatever Fylus said that stuff was that was the tank."

"It all comes down to recoil," Rollond said. "My bracers absorb only so much. The rest gets right into the bone, and if it's too much for me to handle, my bones can turn into jelly."

"So basically you loose an arm."

"Yep," Rollond said, glancing up at the vent. "Permanently." He motioned for Ashenzsi to come over.

"Wonderful," Ashenzsi groaned, dragging himself up from the floor.

"Is your back any good?"

"What? Why?"

"I need you to stand here." Rollond pointed beneath the vent. "And lift me up on your shoulders so that I can pull the grating off."

Reluctance, that was it, what the down-slanted ears and the furrowed brow said. Rollond knew that one, at least. But he kept whirling his hand in the air. "Come on." Finally when Ashenzsi stepped over and knelt down, Rollond got both his feet on the beast's shoulder blades.

"Could lose some fat," Ashenzsi growled as he steadily lifted Rollond up.

Rollond slid his fingers through the vent grate and pulled. The bolts whined, and the nuts ached, but refused to give. They were doing their job, but Rollond just kept pulling, and soon enough, the grating came loose and he threw it onto the floor. "So'yi," he said, "let's go."

"Wait — no," Ashenzsi faltered underneath Rollond, but the man shifted his weight. "I am not having her in the poison duct!"

"Got any other ideas?" Rollond said, smooth and composed.

"We... could go back and find another way out."

"The only way we're getting out of here is if we go up. This warehouse is sealed. And we're dealing with an unconnected, sectional floor plan, except for, maybe, the ventilation system. If we go back, that gas keeps coming in, and we're going to die. Our best bet is this vent, since if we get far enough, I can easily force my way into another room and we can block it off."

Ashenzsi did not look too happy. "What if we don't get far enough?"

"Then I'm a corpse right along with you," Rollond said. "And I don't have time for that." He jumped off of Ashenzsi's back and pulled himself into the vent.

So'yi tugged on Ashenzsi's tail, and he stopped following the thumps of Rollond crawling in the vent, directing his attention to her. She held the cloth over her face and pointed upward. "I want to go with him," she said, "his sayings are trustworthy."

He nodded and lifted her up, then jumped into the vent behind her, creeping forward until he bumped into her, and she bumped into Rollond, who nearly tripped over the edge of the narrow platform at the end of the vent. The wind in the central duct threatened to throw Rollond upwards into the emergency barrier that cut it off from the upward levels. He stepped back and gripped a thin rail at the side of the wall.

"What now?" Ashenzsi shouted, because the whirl of fan blades nearly swallowed his voice whole.

"We jump," Rollond said. The ceiling posed little danger, and the alternate power kept the fans working. Otherwise it was a long drop, and maybe there was a screen. He chuckled at the idea: diced Rollond cubes. He knew he was not cold as ice, but he would make one hell of a cocktail. "You first," he said, taking Ashenzsi by the hand.

"W-wait — no — !" He didn't have time to think before Rollond threw him into the duct. He clung to beam, and did not seem too happy about it, his lower body blown upwards.

Rollond scooped So'yi up. She clung to him, wrapping her tail around his waist and clenched him with her hands and feet. Shortly after she was secure, he vaulted forward, and shot up into the duct, narrowly making the bar, having to forcibly push against the wind to grab it with his loose hand. He could hardly see, his eyes stinging and tearing, but he pulled himself towards Ashenzsi, and let go.

He went up and smacked into the ceiling, scarcely able to pull himself along the smooth, cold, steely plates that separated them from the levels above. He struggled to breathe and his vision darkened. Until finally, the wind lessened, and he narrowly dropped onto a small ledge, barely laying hold on the edge.

So'yi climbed up his arm and grabbed his wrist. She repeatedly tried to pull Rollond up, but his weight proved too much for her. But, then, as she pulled, he started rising upwards onto the platform. And for a moment, she grinned and hopped, leading him back towards the vent, proud that she could pull someone many times her weight — with Ashenzsi's help, as it turned out he put Rollond on his shoulders and pushed the man up.

Once they were all on the platform, So'yi ducked down the vent. Behind her, Ashenzsi's tail swayed as he dragged Rollond's stiffening body by his wrists. The passage widened as they came into a service vent.

"This is wonderful," Rollond managed to say between sputtering coughs and choked breaths. His strength was rolling through his body, coming and going like waves breaking on a beach. He carefully pushed past Ashenzsi and So'yi, and put his hand to the closed grating. It was big enough for him to duck and walk through, but he had no idea what was on the other side. There was a churning sound, steady and continuous, and the slosh of something wet. It could be water, it could be goop, it could be the vat the poisonous fumes came from. He doubted that though, because the grating was shut. Obviously the poison wasn't supposed to be in there.

He leaned as his physical prowess waned, and the clarity of his vision receded further. He could not wait much longer, his senses beginning to spiral out of good use, that is, until he felt his vigor waxing back to its rightful place. It was sudden, and he almost sensed that it was being loaned to him, but that did not matter. What did was his fist. And as he balled it, he put it forward with less than his usual might, but the side of the grating bent into the room, and he punched it until it fell through.

Down into the vat was their only choice. The churning mixer moved slowly as water poured into a thick solution. Nine tubes dipped into the vat, sucking up the same thick, viscous goop that filled the tanks.

At a glance, Rollond thought the tubes were wide enough to snugly fit his size. And on little else but his gut feeling, he dove off of the ledge of the vent, into the vat of goop.

Ashenzsi gritted his teeth and scowled. "You still have trust in that one?" he asked So'yi.

She patted his shin. "As much as I do in this one." She hopped past him and dove into the vat.

As he watched her swim to Rollond, who clung to one of the tubes, arduous disbelief gurgled in his gut: what was he doing being lead by a child? There was no sense in being concerned with it now. He hesitated, bobbing on his legs, but dove down too.

"Through here," Rollond sputtered. The goo was so bitter he wanted to spit.

"Where do these tubes end?" Ashenzsi asked.

"I don't know," Rollond said. He kept his eyes on Ashenzsi's glowered face.

"You have no clue where you're leading us, do you?"

"I'll be fair," he said, "I don't know where I am or just how to get where I want to be. I do know the outside world is up there." Rollond pointed. "And that's where I'm going." He hardened his gaze, returning Ashenzsi's frustration. "You're still free to find your own way if you want," he said; then he ducked into the goop and entered the tube.

So'yi went after him, leaving Ashenzsi behind. He grimaced, but took a breath and dove under. The tube sucked him up greedily, and though he tried to control how fast he went, his body was limp as if he had no bones. He could not breathe, he could not see, and the nastiest, most pungent taste crept past his lips. Soon a muffled, slurry, murky whir filled his ears. Ashenzsi clawed at the smooth tubing, but his talons slid along with him until he bumped head-first into Rollond.

Equally blind, Rollond struggled to hold his place. He elbowed the tubing as his lungs ached furiously. He needed to breathe, and he slammed his elbow into the tubing. The rivets strained, but the metal popped open, and he nearly sliced his chin in two as he slipped down.

Finally out of the tube, Rollond pulled So'yi up after him, and then helped Ashenzsi, who gagged, crumpled onto his knees and held his arms over his stomach before throwing up.

"That stuff is disgusting," Rollond said between pants. "I can't imagine being cooped up in it."

"Tsche," Ashenzsi said. "I never thanked you, did I?"

Rollond shook his head. "Huh-uh."

Ashenzsi grinned after he caught his breath, discarding the goo-drenched strips of Rollond's shirt. "Uunan though you are," he said, as he stepped forward and placed his hand on Rollond's shoulder, "I will be honored if I may have you as my Brother."

Rollond stared him in the eye. So all that flack was a test of his character? Or had Ashenzsi really come around? Then again, why be suspicious at all? There were plenty of opportunities for him to literally disembowel Rollond from behind, as often as he had his back turned to Ashenzsi. Yet so far, he proved to be a reluctant ally, and Rollond needed someone he could trust.

He held out his arm, and Ashenzsi reached for his hand, but Rollond gripped him near his elbow. "A brother," Rollond said, meaning 'brother' as he understood it.

Ashenzsi returned his gesture. "Brother," he said.

There were certain expressions — 'words' — in Tswaa'ii that related to the kind and closeness of a bond. 'Metazanschi' meant a far-away, thin bond, like a neighbor who lived in the area but was not personally known. But the one insinuating a Brother, who did not share the blood tie, was of special significance.

Rollond did not know what Ashenzsi meant, but the feeling was mutual.

"So where to from here?" Ashenzsi asked.

Rollond sighed. "Look for whatever gets us closer to the surface. You know how to alert me if you find something."

Ashenzsi nodded.

The network between isolated sections of the warehouse was a maze, a hectic mess. Rollond went in one direction, and Ashenzsi explored another. The network, apart from the faint hum of electrical power, was eerily silent.

"Shenzi!" So'yi said, her straight, pointed fangs bared as she jumped at him.

He hissed, stumbling backwards onto the floor. She hopped onto him and poked his nose with her own.

"Don't scare me like that!" he snarled, pushing her off of him.

She laughed. "Why is your rou'u shaken?"

He purposely did not look her in the eyes. She would know if he granted her one direct glance. And he was sure of that because he knew So'yi, and that she always meant well. But this was all new to him, having to work with a human, especially one who could know him by his experiences, who could sense his emotions, his distresses, everything. That same human could will him to act — to move — to do things he would not normally do. Like when Rollond allowed Ashenzsi to lift his hand.

This kind of involuntary intimacy was not only foreign, but frighteningly awkward for him.

"Shenzi?" she asked.

"Rollond's back that way," he said. "Go see what he wants."

She flicked her ear and furrowed her brow. "Tsch," she said, and she started for Rollond.

Rollond sat on the floor, legs crossed, eyeing a key pad on the wall beside a door.

Her steps were soft, her footfalls nearly silent. She poked her head under his arm and pushed her way into his lap. "I don't understand," she said, settling comfortably. "He offers you the bond, but is afraid?"

"Sometimes, So'yi, people do things hoping that they have a friend," Rollond said. "Your buddy doesn't know what to make of me yet, and I think he's smart for doing what he did, because I wouldn't trust a Prince either."

She looked at him funny. "Why not?"

"There's nothing worse than a spoiled-rotten politician." He grinned, but soon frowned.

"I don't think you are a bad man." Her innocence radiated from her gaze, and seeped through her voice. As Rollond looked down into her large, pearly white eyes, she incited something in him: a noble thing, a proud thing. It was an abysmally deep pride — a dark, disturbing, unending pride.

She blinked and looked down. "I don't think... Are you?"

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice smooth and eerily calm.

Her ears splayed. "I — what?"

"You were searching me out," Mokallai said, cold and disconnectedly.

Her ears turned back.

"Strange little thing, with your big white eyes. You ought be careful who you peer into." Mokallai tilted Rollond's head, and the white of his eyes went black. Rollond's blue irises turned a glimmering, polished gold.

She started to shrink back from him, but he snatched her arm. So'yi squealed, jerking against his tightening grip.

"That's a neat trick you have," he said.

"Let him go!" she snarled.

Mokallai chuckled, through Rollond. "How can a man let himself go? In the end we're all one and the same. I'm sure you've noticed that, with your prying, revealing eyes." He paused, as she kept her teeth bared, ready to bite chunks off of him. "Or do you think you can stop me?"

"I will try —"

"And I will destroy you." He smiled broadly, his tone yet calm, but fiercely threatening. "Be wise, child. Stay out of my way."

She stared into those haunting golden irises. "No," she hissed. She curled her tongue and drew it deep into her throat. With pursed lips she began to mutter sounds. Her utterance was deep and bassful, electronic sounding. And as Rollond heard it his head snapped back, and his body straightened so fast he nearly threw himself backwards onto the floor.

He groaned, rubbing his neck, until he noticed an angry, little, feral girl on his leg. "I did something wrong?" he asked.

"Not you," she said, and smiled, hopping down from him. "What's with that?" she pointed at the panel.

"It's the door," Rollond said. "I'm trying to guess what's behind it."

The steady grind of gears filtered through the door, also the sounds of a conveyor of some kind, and the muffled slam of heavy lids.

"It doesn't sound good."

"No, it doesn't," he agreed, and stood up.

As he started for Ashenzsi, So'yi rubbed one hand over the other. She did not know if she should tell him. Or even if he would believe her. Why would he? She knew she would sound absurd: 'Someone is watching you from deep inside.' She shook her head. She started towards him, hopping to his side. She reached up and held on to three of his fingers. "Rollond?"

"Yeah?"

"What if we get out of here and your life refuses to go back to what it was?"

"What do you mean?" His stomach sank at her use of 'refuses.'

She barely drew breath to reply when a loud yelp and something tumbling sounded from a vertical service shaft.

Ashenzsi curled and covered his head. He dropped a hundred and fifty feet, nearly thudding on the floor, but a thick, yellow cord wrapped around his ankle spared him the impact.

So'yi laughed at him, and Rollond unwrapped the cord around Ashenzsi's foot.

He fell, then scrambled to his feet, growling as he shoved the dangling cord — the evil and aggressive, menacing cord.

"You look like you've had an adventure," Rollond said.

"There's a hatch," Ashenzsi said, "up there, with Uunani on the other side. But I can't tell if they are ifha or injyn." He paused. "They sound neither."

"That's because they're Hedonites," Rollond said as he climbed the ladder.

The hatch was heavy. It crushed against Rollond as he pushed it. He shifted up a few rungs and pushed harder, and gradually the hatch lifted. Sand trickled down around him.

Fresh air and screams greeted him as he lifted his chin, breathing in the familiar, earthy, salty smell of the marbled desert. He thought the arid air was wonderful, barely noticing the speared body that flew over him as he climbed out of the hatch, because his skin itched terribly, and he was filthier than a fifty year-old neglected toilet.

More worthwhile than that was the coarse condition of his briefs that ground against certain sensitive skin as he stretched in the open air. It was more of a concern to him, as he reached back to pull the stiff wedgie out of his butt, than the shadow of a Sandwyrk looming over him with gaping, drooling jaws. He had no time to react when the worm-like beast lunged, he just jolted at the sound of intense wailing behind him.

Ashenzsi flipped through the air. The palm of his foot slammed into the jaw of the Sandwyrk, knocking it backwards. His feet barely touched the sand, and he hurled himself forward, heavy talons cleaving the thick, tough hide of the Wyrk's belly. The Wyrk barely drew it's massive, glossy body back, screeching while Ashenzsi rended bloodied chunks of it into the sand.

The Wyrk lashed. The back of its bony blade protuberance, positioned something like a middle finger, struck Ashenzsi upside his head, and he staggered sideways into the sand. It was then that the beast, unable to slither on its belly for the awful sting of its wounds, swung itself forward at Rollond, its long, sharp blades screaming as it sliced though the air.

Ashenzsi darted in front of it, snatching the Wyrk's outstretched wrist in his jaws. He bowed backward, forcing the Wyrk's arcing momentum to shift. The beast flipped forward, thudding loudly on its back. Ashenzsi sprung up into the air, his face wild, his teeth bared, and the heavy claws of his toes splayed to stab into the Wyrk's head upon his landing.

But the Wyrk covered its head with its arms and rolled out of Ashenzsi's way. "Thu'uryi, enough! I bow to your dominance!" The Wyrk cried out, bowing low until its chin was flat on the sand, and its body was a large, bent noodle in the air.

A crowd gathered. Several Trap-jaws sat in semi-circle at a distance behind the Sandwyrk, and others of its kind were peering at the one Wyrk that bowed to Ashenzsi.

"Why do you attack him?" Ashenzsi growled, pointing at Rollond.

"Our Tsamiiq," the Wyrk said. "She has given command to hunt, for us, ourselves. That the Uunani take our kin, and keep owning the blame."

Ashenzsi nodded. "You are?"

"Kiyurim," he said. "This one belongs to Hydarkua. These with me are my brothers," he said, pointing to the other Sandwyrks. "And these are my Brothers." He pointed at the Trap-jaws with them.

Overhearing their exchange, Rollond jogged to Ashenzsi and tapped his shoulder. He furrowed his brows, not sure where to start his barrage of questions. "What is 'Hydarkua'?" he asked.

"The name of home," Ashenzsi said.

"And why are the Sandwyrks his 'Tdarja', and the Trap-jaws his 'Ma'aukja'? They're all his siblings?"

Ashenzsi shook his head. "No."

Rollond tapped his chin, looking perplexedly at Kiyurim. And since when did Sandwyrks have names? His skin rippled at the thought: the beasts he was taught to hate adhered to their own social structure, and that instigated his curiosity. Just how complex were these creatures? He hardly noticed Ashenzsi studying his face and how serious Ashenzsi looked, almost as if he wanted to pry into Rollond's head.

"Do you want to learn?" Ashenzsi asked.

Rollond eyed Kiyurim more. "Yes," he said, hesitantly.

Ashenzsi stepped over to Kiyurim. "Have the Tyihai given you honor?"

Kiyurim shook his head. "No."

Ashenzsi grinned. "I will see that they do, if you take my companions and me to Hydarkua." His cheer flopped into pursed, frowning lips as he watched Kiyurim shrink back and shake his head.

"No," Kiyurim said, "the Uunan cannot come —"

"Trust me, your virgin price will be a thousand times your worth and a thousand more — if — you bring this one with you." He watched Kiyurim's head bob, pondering the idea. Considerations surfaced in Kiyurim's thoughtful eyes, and Ashenzsi prepared to answer, but Kiyurim was not one to ask questions.

"Tsche, come!" Kiyurim pressed his chest to the sand.

Ashenzsi and So'yi mounted Kiyurim behind his shoulders, but Rollond hesitated to step near the beast.

The thought of being the first man on the back of a Sandwyrk was overwhelming. Rollond was taught to fear these things, but already, as he gripped a thick tendril of its dreadlocked mane and hoisted himself onto Kiyurim's back, he learned that they were more than mere desert nuisances.

As soon as Rollond's weight settled on him, Kiyurim stabbed his arms into the sand and hurtled forth. He skimmed over the desert; a swift yet graceless ride.

Rollond squeezed Ashenzsi, even as the wyrk slowed. They passed through a narrow tunnel, going deep into the mountains to an open cavern. An opening at the top provided sunlight and in the distance, was a broad and high plateau. Water rushed down all around it from the gap in the cavern ceiling, and Rollond gawked at it, awed.

An abysmal chasm separated the plateau from the rest of the cavern. The routes to the raised platform were narrow, smoothed wooden poles covered in moss. The mere sight of these poles made Rollond's stomach churn, even as Kiyurim deftly coiled around and pulled himself onward. Finally, the beast stopped at the top of the plateau, where the winding pole dove into shoddy clay mortar.

Rollond's temples ached seconds after Ashenzsi and So'yi dropped into the swarming mass of Kyusoakin. They all looked so much alike that he lost sight of Ashenzsi in a sea of sandy complexions. Even So'yi's tangled red locks were swallowed in a tumult of black dreads. Rollond hesitated to dismount.

"Get off!" Kiyurim bellowed, and threw Rollond into a bubbling pool of mud.

He thudded face down and laid in the muck. Contemptuous laughter sounded all around him: Uunani kyisoulaat.

When the voices of the Kyusoa became faint, Rollond dragged himself from the mud. He came to a pristine, warm spring of water and knelt down, cupping his hands and rinsing his face. Only after did he look up and notice the scowling visages of the Kyusoakin who congregated there. They growled and dispersed, and Rollond slunk into the pool. He stripped off the last of his clothes, and settled in the pool's sand bed, sulking over his welcome. He sighed and leaned back.

Six little fingers squeezed his shoulder. So'yi perched on Rollond and nosed through his hair.

"What are you doing up there?" he asked.

"Looking for you," she said.

"Well? Did you find me?" he chuckled.

She bowed over the top of his head and unleashed a tiny roar, meaning to nip his nose, but lost her footing and plunged into the water.

He smiled at her playful attitude, dampening his desire to sulk.

"May I join you?" A voice snared Rollond's brief joy as words rolled from a thin and narrow, serpentine tongue bearing a neutral Gyutal accent so perfect it made Rollond's skin crawl.

"Yes," he said. He couldn't help watching with intense intrigue, as she unwrapped the towel around her sleek body and settled, stark naked in the water beside him.

"I am Asaliael, but you may call me Asalai." She offered her hand and Rollond stared at her four fingers.

Finally he shook it. "I'm —"

"I know you." Asa smiled. "I was the one who severed your birth cord. You likely don't remember me, Rollond, but I do recall you, as do a number of others you don't know.

He furrowed his brows. "Look, I don't care what you're talking about, and I'm not about to accept some ominous typhod bile from some wised-up, washed down freak that I don't know." He snatched his pants, and wadded them over his hips, rising from the water. "Heik," he swore, "I'm going home." He set one foot on the sand bank when his eyes settled on So'yi's face. Her ears were back and her visage was a let down one.

He stopped. Why? What more did she want from him?

"Why are you here, Rollond?" Asalai asked.

"I..." He had no idea what to respond with. Except that he liked being around So'yi, and Ashenzsi wasn't half bad. "I was brought here — I asked and I made a decision that I wanted to learn."

"Then why go back?"

"Because that is where I belong," he said, his tone strong, authoritative.

Asalai met his stern, challenging gaze with her unshaken visage. "In the life that you hate...?"

He shook his head. "What do you know?" he growled.

"A lot," she said. "You don't fear becoming Neisam, you abhor it — because it means bondage, it means slavery, and you cannot yet bear it. So why do you insist on returning to the machine that will imprison you?"

Rollond was dumbfounded. "Because... I was born to —"

"Destiny is a death sentence," Asalai said. "You are here because you chose to be; the little one adores you because you chose to help her; the older one offers you Brotherhood because you chose to treat him like an equal. Now, as then, and for times to come, you have choices to make and consequences to see through."

He crouched, silent, and Asalai peered into his fascination.

"Don't let anyone fool you into thinking that because you were born, you were born a slave to predesign," she said.

He said nothing.

"You're welcome to stay."

Rollond plopped down on the sandbank, yet cradling his pants in place. "There are things that I have to see to," he said. As if he had ever lifted a finger, willingly, towards his duties as prince.

Asalai nodded. "Maybe I can see to them for you?"

He perked his eyebrows and looked at her. "Sounds good, but how?" Sarcasm rang in his voice, and his lips curled into a smug grin.

"I will ask of you because I require it."

His visage turned into a deep frown. She was serious, and he almost knew what was coming next. He didn't like it. Though he could barely understand why, as Asalai reached out to him, her open hand expecting to receive. "The Ra'ol stone of Alekzandrya."

It was the proof of princehood; the emblem of authenticity; the rock that signaled who he was to the whole world. And, it was his only link back to home. "You're asking me to renounce my family," Rollond said.

"I'm asking you to own yourself," she softly replied. Her open hand represented what he wanted, and he knew it. But freedom does not come without price, and he was well aware of what he was handing over, for the most part. He took her hand and clutched it.

"You understand what this means?"

"Yes," he said, "yes I do."

"The Tsamiiq and the Schyiqar will gather the commune soon."

He helped Asalai up.

"I wouldn't bother getting dressed if I were you, the Kyusoa will take it as marked shame."

Rollond narrowed his eyes. "You want me to go naked?"

"M'hm." Asalai nodded.

He watched her leave until a familiar hand patted his calf. So'yi reached up and Rollond tentatively gave her his pants. She solemnly waddled over to the edge of the plateau, dropped his pants over and wiped her hands clean. Then she hopped over to him and took hold of his hand, leading him towards the gathering.

Rollond's presence did more than drive the collective apart; he silenced them, bringing forth a multitude of scowling, furious and distraught faces with each step. So'yi stayed perched on his shoulder as he drew near to a lowered pit. In it were three large spheres. Two of them were occupied.

"Uunan," hissed a female voice from atop the highest floating sphere. Her voice seethed with disdain, and he still stepped forward. "What boldness drives you here?"

"Madness," he said, pulling his shoulders back and raising his neck. "What else could it be?"

The Tsamiiq laughed. "Yes, what else can it be? For you are not welcome here." She dropped down from the sphere and landed gracefully on the palms of her hands and feet. At first she approached him, prowling, like a lioness, then she stood and got near to him, face-to-face. "Tell me why we should not rend your flesh like the animals you Uunani think we are?"

"Because if you were animals, you would have shredded me before I stopped here." He pointed to where he stood. "Obviously you're curious to know what I have to say, why I'm here, what I have to do with anything."

She arched her brows and shifted her weight back. "Tsche."

"I'm curious to know that, too," he said.

"Tschoka, that is no way to treat your guest." Asalai sat, cross-legged on the sphere that hovered closest to the ground.

"He is not my guest," Tschoka said.

"Either slit his throat and be done with it, or come back to your perch and accept that he is among your kin as a guest," Asalai said.

He watched her face contort into a vicious, beast-y scowl, her keen teeth bared forth. She raised her talons, her steely fingers bent, and he showed no fear. No emotion, placid as a calm lake, looking into her eyes. What large, sparkling, and outraged pink irises she had. They were beautiful, and Rollond respected that.

"Feh!" Tschoka pushed him. "You are not worth the death by my claw." She flattened her ears back and looked away from his abysmally deep, cobalt eyes. She went back to her sphere.

"I'm glad that's over," Asalai said. "Now to explain," she said, unsheathing a long, curved and ornate, bony dagger at her thigh. "This might cause a wee pain and discomfort. Nothing you can't handle, right?" She palmed his chest, her fingers curling, feeling for where to stab. She drew the knife back, and the muscles of Rollond's chest tensed.

The razor tip of the blade barely touched his chest, when an overwhelming, but not blinding light erupted between them. Asalai stepped back, shielding her eyes with her arm.

— Asalai, a voice said. It was soft like the rush of a creek over stones, and yet commanding, authoritative. Asalai, tell me that you do not actually plan to extract a Ra'ol stone from where I have put it. Or have you gotten this bold over the years?

"Yes, I have planned —"

— Silly Reye-girl, said the voice. But more than that, what a stubborn and self-confident man, to think that you would stand there and actually subject yourself to being stabbed, multiple times, in the center of your chest for a rock that doesn't even belong to the nation you originated from.

Rollond looked at Asalai funny. "What?"

— But it is hard to imagine what you can't see as I am speaking to you. The voice chuckled. But we Alyi are not of any discernible shape. The best I can give you, is this.

It was like smoke and mist, as it rose from the ground, liquid, twisting and writhing. It alternated a full range of colors, but was dominantly burgundy-violet and gold-orange. It emanated out of the ground, between Rollond and Asalai, and it snaked up high, until it bent and seemed to peer down at Rollond.

"What are you?" Rollond asked.

— More important is who am I; we Alyi are masters of Aelyth, and by extension, the Aelyth speaks by our will. So you know what it is that I am. As for who, my name is Dyiij. And I have for some time taken a considerable interest in you, Prince. You have shown much promise, especially since your friend there offered you something sincere, and even he has been in my eye for quite some time.

"What do you want?" Rollond grunted.

— The well-being of my world, and all that dwell in it, Dyiij said, and your willing cooperation.

"Why do you need a man to cooperate with you? I've heard rumors of you Alyi; you're mighty spirit beings."

— This is true. I could do it all myself. But this is not about me; it is about you, and others that are now, and others that have yet to come. Even those who will die have a significant role in this.

"Sounds like you're offering me a binding fate."

— No, not a destiny, but a choice. If you would accept my offer, and cooperate with me, I will assure your and Ashenzsi's escape from the one who drives the clockwork design. From the golden eyes of Fate you will be hidden. But know that this being put before you comes with grave consequences.

"What kind of consequences?"

— Ones that are best left unheard of. But if you must know... Should you refuse, to Alekzandrya you will return, and for a time, it will proceed as usual. The pressure to be Neisam will loom over you, until the day that you inherit the nation of your namesake. You will take for yourself a wife, because it is required that you produce an heir. But Destiny, Mokallai, will come and Alekzandrya will be as toys in his hand.

"That does sound terrible..." Rollond rubbed his chin. "Mokallai, you say? What's the deal with him?"

— Aeons ago, an Aelythian being, a Megynsei, a spirit creature lesser than we Alyi, was commissioned to preside over the affairs of the domain of my sister. Mokallai is that spirit, and the manipulation of, and assurance of specific events, is his power. At first he managed her domain well, but soon enough he became so enamored with himself that he figured himself unstoppable.

— When my sister returned to her domain, unspeakable things were taking place amongst the physical beings. And these things happening were all in connection to the veneration of Mokallai. He has since been utterly transformed into a dilapidated spirit, no longer recognized as a Megynsei. But during the hour of his execution, he boldly fled here.

Rollond sat down cross-legged. Dyiij had his rapt attention. Even when the message was grave, her voice remained in some way uplifting and soothing.

— Mokallai is evil, she said, sorrowfully. And no matter what, he must be destroyed. Or else, the things that happened to my sister's peoples will happen to you. And I do not want any of you to suffer; you are precious to me. However, I will not bring about the end of Mokallai any which way, nor with just anyone.

— This is why I have come to you, Rollond, Dyiij said, her tone serious. You will not be the champion of my will, the Harbinger of Mokallai's undoing. You, instead, will become a stronghold, and under your shadow, all kinds of beings will take refuge. During your time as Bastion and Overlord, the one who will be my Champion will emerge. You will love him, and he will be like a son to you.

— All I ask for in return is that you give him back to me.

Rollond glanced at Ashenzsi. The other Kyusoa kept themselves crouched low, their bellies flat to the rocks, but he stood, his ears moving frontward and back, uncertain. As it was a strange thing to comprehend. And yet, both of them were curious to see how, exactly, these things the Alyi spoke of would turn about.

'Well? What do you think?' Rollond asked.

Ashenzsi shrugged. 'If an Alyi speaks, so it must be true.'

Rollond grunted. 'You blindly accept this — this thing's word as truth?'

'Perhaps I do,' Ashenzsi grinned, 'More than that, I have settled in my rou'u that whatever you do, I want to be with you.'

'... Why?'

'I want to know where your story ends. Be it by life or death, I wish to see you through.'

"Alright," Rollond sighed, "I accept."
Distortion.

Dyinaacvas, the 46th day, to Melvas, the 47th day of the month of Ristvarr, 7╥451.

Deep in slumber, his eyes flickered.

It was a dark and cold place. A tumultuous mist crept along the ground, and he held his arms to his chest and shivered. "Hello?" He called into the endless void. His voice echoed hollowly, and he received no response. He kept walking in one direction. "Hello? Is someone out there?" He called out again.

His eyes watered, and he kept on. Until finally, two figures stood in the distance. One was a Kyusoa, he could tell, and the other appeared human, except that when the silhouette of the man became clear to him, he knew the white-haired man wasn't all that he seemed. By the shape of his eyes, and the dark lines of his eyelids, like a woman wearing eyeliner, he was part Reyeélle.

He reached out to rest his hand on the man's shoulder, when the brilliance of colors, such radiance, burst forth from the man and the Kyusoa. He held his arm over his violet-burgundy eyes, at first, but as his vision adjusted, he recognized it:

"Dyiij," he said. "My Alyi, please, please help me — please! You don't know — you don't know, the things that he has done through me; the things I have done, because of him!" He got down on his knees, and the wetness of his eyes flowed down his cheeks. "Conceal me in death, Dyiij, I beg you — before he returns, before he returns!"

— Shh, Dyiij shushed him. A tendril of color brushed his tear-stained and wary face. I know it is not you, Yonathael.

He shivered and wept.

— Just a little while longer and it will be over, I promise.

"How much longer will you allow me to be used? And with these evils, will I see punishment? You know me — you know me, my heart is not this bitter!"

— Hush now, Yonathael, and know that you are dear to me. You must wait because I do not wish to see you swept up in the eternal death of that one. Just a little more patience, and it will be done. Be quiet, and slumber; forget what you saw, and know that I am for you.

The mist rose, separating him from the man and the Kyuosoa like a dense, impenetrable curtain. He got off his knees, and reached out towards the light. A cold, eerie chill slithered down his spine.

"This is why I hate sleeping," a deep voice rasped behind him. There he was, manifested out of human blood, black and silver, his arms dribbling, clots dropping from him and splattering on the dark ground. And his eyes, those rings of solid, polished gold, burned into Yonathael's purple, human-esque oculars. "The Alyi, I know you saw It. What did It say?"

Yonathael cringed.

"I asked you a question," he growled, deeply, the gold becoming intensely bright, burning, boiling the black-silver blood around them.

"I-I don't know," Yonathael sputtered.

Those golden bands widened.

"I swear, I swear! I know nothing, nothing at all!"

"Then it's time to wake up," he said, growing in height, his clotted base creeping over Yonathael.

"N-no!" Yonathael protested, clawing at the limbs of blood. "No! Not again, no, please! Have mercy! No!"

Resistance was useless.

He sat upright. Cold sweat saturated the suede leather couch. Groggily, he ducked into the kitchen and dipped into the fridge for orange juice. The only thing left was a half-empty bottle of sweet Sorbkei wine. He snatched the elegant flask of Jokthathi import and strode down the hall, dragging his fingers along the wall. He stopped, tentatively, when his hand slid along the door to Marqi's room. A calming sensation tingled at his fingertips, the aelyth within seemed to accept that it was, for lack of a better expression, trapped within that room.

He twisted the knob, and hesitantly opened the door. She was sitting there, her legs folded indian-style, on the center of the bed, her head bowed.

"Aaahhhsss~" she groaned, slowly rolling her neck. Finally her eyes focused on him — sharp, crystal, magenta. "For the longest time, I thought you'd never release me," she cooed. "I was starting to like being part of you, Mok —"

"Yonathael," his tone cut into hers. "My name is Yonathael."

"And so what are you going to call me? Sara?"

"As often as I please," he kept his tone low, just a hair above a growl, but serious, threatening.

She arched her brows and canted her head. "Of course." She laid back. "You Megynsei are all the same, aren't you? Nasty, mean, and cold to us Iisae. Whatever did we do to deserve your disdain?"

"Your kind is beneath mine," he said, matter-of-factly.

"My name is Einarreal —"

"Get up, Sara." He started down the hall.

"Would that I have you respect me," she muttered.

"What was that?"

"Coming!" She thrust her legs forward, rocking upright.

He flopped back on the couch, and flicked on the tele. She stretched her arms over the back and hung by her chest, her chin nestled between the couch cushions.

'Arch Ganton DuShaffte does not plan to press premeditated rape charges against Doctor Sara Malyth. Although he is well aware that the law demands Ms. Malyth be put on death row, he says that it is for his son's sake that he prolongs exacting judgment. Because ten year old Marqisian DuShaffte, formerly Marqisian Malyth, may still need his mother.'

"Great," she groaned. "Not only am I some snow-bunny, I just so happen to be a wolf's head."

"That won't matter for long," Yonathael scoffed, and turned to the international channel.

'Seven-point-eight trillion Alekzandryan Kwaz is up for grabs. But what, you may wonder, merits such a hefty bounty from Nexus? The current Neisam, Her Grace, Mylisto Alekzandyr, is offering this sum in exchange for information as to the whereabouts of her son, Rollond Jysieldor Alekzandyr, who went missing along with a strange little red-head girl, shortly after a conference of the current forty-three tribal governors.'

"What, you got some kind of plan?" She slunk forward and nosed his stringy black hair.

He arched his brow. "I didn't become the Master Harbinger of Fate by inaction. But yes, I do."

'If you have any information that may lead to the recovery of the Prince, you can reach Nexus directly at A-CG0, 1311, 449. Again that number is A-CG0, 1311, 449.'

"You and your Fates," she muttered. "So who do you have it in for?"

'In other news, Gantoness Regnant, or Gantoness Pregnant? What Konstaneans can expect to see in their near future.'

He cocked his brow. "You'll see," he said, and flicked off the tele.

"Am I barred from a straight answer?" She watched him drape a long coat over his shoulders and slide his arms into the sleeves.

He tossed her Sara's purse, and jingled her keys. "It's a surprise," he said. "Now come, I don't plan to go ill-prepared."

She shuffled out the door after him, and he locked it. Sara's car had some bottom damage. The landing gear was bent from dropping the car on the street. But the engines still roared to life. She didn't take long to figure out where he intended to go.

"A museum?" she asked.

He circled around, lowering what good gear the vehicle had left to land on, and settled it as smoothly as possible on the roof of a strip mall, three blocks from the Arboretum of Malzeyuri Wildlife and Habitat. He stepped out of Sara's car, and peered over the edge of the roofing. "Yes," he said, and dropped down into the alley.

The back door had no handle; the loading decks were all computer operated. He strode to a silvery tap-button call panel, and without much thought, tapped it. It chimed and lit up, but after a short while, a mock-female, computerized voice came on: Welcome, please state your ID and the nature of your visit.

He pushed on the bottom of his throat, and rolled his head along his shoulders. When he spoke, he made the most unnatural sounds. Technological sounds, in pitches high and low, wobbling and screeching. Sara stared at Yonathael's lips, as he uttered sound after sound, as if words in a foreign language.

Thank you. Received at 1:37 am, the panel chimed, and the freight door opened.

He nonchalantly strolled in, as if used to what he had done. "The designs of this Alyi are useful."

"Strange is more like it," Einariel said, by Sara's voice. She had doubts as to where he was going, and her pace slowed, as he strayed through the halls. His eyes scanned the plaque of each dome, and sometimes he stood in the entrance foyer, listening to the sounds of the creatures within. Until finally, he came to a place that smelled familiar.

It was the stench of sulfur and of bog rot; the sound of yellowed, crusted bubbling springs, and the low disparaging wails of widwing-hags as he stepped into the vivarium; how the spongy ground broke at each step, and swallowed his foot whole; the perfect replica of a region once called Aylokazus. He passed by straw huts held fast by mud mortar, what the Malzeyurites used to live in hundreds of thousands of years before Konstaneah.

It was a walk down memory lane for him:

Oily-skinned, ghostly white, pristine blond men and women filled the empty huts. The steely walkway of the Arboretum became an over-trodden dirt path, and the people who stood in his way, with solemn faces, stepped aside. They were taller than him, and the children stood as high as his shoulder as he strode — on his hands and feet like a beast.

A ways down the road was one that looked just like Yonathael, a beast whose body was covered in a fine, fuzzy, ebony down, and his paws were like human hands, and his mane of hair like that of a horse wobbled back and forth as he worked with sanding stones on a gnarled branch. The color of his glossy, lidless eyes was burgundy and violet, swirled erratically, and as his internal ocular aperture shifted, and he caught sight of Yonathael, the beast uttered something only the two of them understood:

Welcome, Brother! You remember that project I'm working on, do you? I finally finished it, despite what you told me. You were right, though, it is exceptionally unstable. Perhaps it is a good idea to seal it away, or better, destroy it. But now that it's here, I want you to have it. I figure, you'll know how to make practical use of it. The beast grinned at Yonathael, and rose from his haunches. The branch he worked became a winding, polished staff. It narrowed at its far end and then split into two pointed prongs in a U-shape. At its base was an inscription rendered in the early words of the Gyutic language:

Yonaithes: my love, my brother, my womb-mate — Vandlorr.

There it was, the staff his brother made, upright and just as perfect as it was back then, centered in the vivarium. Waves of intense nostalgia overwhelmed him as he gripped the smooth wood. His eyelids fluttered, and his breath wavered — his whole body tensed. Tingling sensations, like thousands of thousands of volts of electricity surged through him at once. It was power, it was great, and it was still dreadfully unstable.

"What's with the twig?" Sara asked.

He faced her, but his eyes gradually opened. He had no idea why someone would retrieve this thing from the Blacklands only to hole it up in the museum. But for that matter, he didn't care. "Can't go unprepared, can we?"

"Go where?"

"You are the mother of the Arch Ganton's son," he said. "You tell me where we're going."

Meanwhile, in the prenatal wing of Professor Dannes and Colleagues Hospital, Arlen fidgeted nervously. It helped a little that it was the same doctor and the same room that he first discovered Marqisian in. He was excited, trauma non-withstanding, to relive that moment, and Arlen's mind wandered the halls of the hospital's past, just over a decade ago, to the infant boy, whose head fit in the palm of his hand.

When he sat down, and the nurse first handed him a bottle of warm milk, for the longest time he watched the boy suck, and peered into one blue eye, one green eye. When he reached up and grabbed Arlen's finger, that was when he knew, no matter what, this was his son.

But this time he was there, as they smoothed Lellayla's belly with lubricant and ran the ultrasound.

"Hey Marqi, Marqi, look!" He tapped his son and pointed at the monitor.

Marqisian gasped. "It's... It's a girl?" he asked, because there weren't any 'poked-out' parts between the legs.

"M'hm." Arlen nodded. "This is your sister."

The boy canted his head at the images on the screen. "Is she going to be white, like me?"

Lellayla snorted, and Arlen's cheeks turned bright red.

"Errm... Marqi," he said, and knelt down to Marqisian's eye level. "You know what happens when you mix a bunch of milk with a bunch of coffee?"

"Yeah, it turns into that light gray-brown stuff."

"Exactly," Arlen said, "she's going to be like that light gray-brown stuff."

Marqi nodded and watched the screen. She had a thing for grabbing her toes. It made her look cute, how she didn't really know any better, practicing for when she came into the outside world. "Dad, can I name her?" He grinned, broadly, at Arlen, who glanced at Lellayla.

"What would you like to name her?" Lel asked.

"Laylen," Marqisian blurted out.

"Marqi, that is a beautiful name," she said.

"Where'd you come up with that, Marqster?" Arlen asked.

"Well, I thought Lellayla and Arlen makes Laylen." It's like math, where one plus one equals one — and three quarters.

"I like it," Lel said. "That's her name, and I'll fight you tooth and claw over it."

"I'm not so sure I like it that rough," Arlen said.

The doctor ushered them out into the hall, where Arlen and Marqisian waited for Lellayla to get dressed. She glowed when she finally returned to them. Arlen kept his vision dead ahead. He didn't want to disturb their laughter, as Lel and Marqi pondered over Laylen. It wasn't until he parked his car on the top deck of the embassy, and Marqisian skipped in, that he and Lel were alone.

"I've been your wife just under a year," she said. "And I know when something's off."

He sighed and held his forehead between his thumb and index finger, leaning on the car door armrest. "Yeah, you do."

"Is it the name?" Her voice rang in earnest. Maybe he didn't like 'Laylen'? "Arlen, if it's about Marqi naming our daughter, please, say so."

"No," he hesitantly said.

"Then tell me, please?"

"I'm just weary."

She wove her fingers between his and clenched his hand. It was that furrow-browed, jaded look on his face that caused her guts to churn. "Hey, lets throw a party. We can invite Marqi's friends over and make it a non-political bash."

He sighed and shook his head. "Lel, I don't think that's the right idea."

"It is a good idea, though. Arlen, how do you expect to fulfill your duties to the nation if you're constantly stressed over who-knows-what?"

"And partying is going to help me 'fill my shoes' as Arch Ganton. Lel, do you hear what you're saying?"

"No, I don't mean it like that!" Her voice escalated. "Look, I just want to help."

He rolled his eyes and opened the door. She half-expected him to head into the building, but wasn't disappointed when he came around and opened the door for her. "Then make it happen," he said. "Right now, I just need..." He had no idea what he needed.

"Thank you!" She gave him a sloppy, wet kiss on the cheek, and slid into the secretary's station. The desk was still familiar, as the touchscreen chimed to life. She didn't take long to make all the calls she needed.

The Embassy was arranged in several tiers of four floors each for its central complex, and by wings for its annexes. The fifth floor from the flat on top was considered the grandest of all the levels, as it had a sterling view overlooking the capital in all directions, and a social dining room for gatherings that could easily suit more than four thousand people. Arlen had just sprawled on the couch when the catering services from the galley arrived.

His eyes widened as five men hauled out a twenty-seven layer cake decorated to look precisely like the Embassy.

"Now dat, is wot I kall, a cake." Iott Nashom, the Ambassador of Jokthath, applauded the servitors.

"And that's what I call showing up too early," Arlen laid back down.

Iott stopped at the north view. "When I hear dat you wife was havink a shower for fe girl, I dought, maybe I brink my family. But, of course, dey are far away in Jokfaf. So I say to myself, 'Iott, why not brink you ofer family?' Und so, I did." He brought several of his own servitors who arrayed on one of the long tables a large, central fountain, bubbling with frothy Jokthathi Spiced Wine.

"Of course when I heard that Iott was on the guest list, I had to come right away." Ashabell Kreatt, who represented Jeskatch, Jokthath's sister-kingdom, rubbed his hands together. "Wherever there is that fine Spiced Wine, there must be gloam cakes!"

"There's supposed to be children, too, you know," Arlen interjected. "Can't have a ton of drinking and beer-food."

"How insulting," Ashabell scoffed. "Gloam cakes are not mere 'beer' food. They are among the greatest traditions of our people. Frankly, I'd be proud, if I were you. It's not every day a politician's son gets to have the best thing he's ever eaten before he turns eleven."

"Your mother's the best thing I've ever eaten," Arlen muttered.

"Oh, blow me, you murderous Swankard," Ashabell sneered.

"I would, but that'd be too much of a compliment." Arlen grinned.

"You're right, it would be, coming from a frat-dropout —"

"Boys, boys!" Kiosiss Radsean, Mistress for the face of Ilumanyea, stepped between Arlen and Ashabell, pushing them apart by a hand splayed on each chest. "Must we engage in politics? Besides, who here has the bigger penis?"

Ashabell's hand shot up.

"You're an idiot, and you know it," Kiosiss said. "So I brought some gifts for the children, if you don't mind." She smiled at Arlen.

He shrugged. "Yeah, so long as someone remembers to keep this kid-friendly, other than me, I'm good. Remember, I'm not discussing anything, and I expect the same from my contemporaries. Tonight's about Lel and our daughter. I don't care which fat-butted head-of-hierarchy wants to know who's going to shove their prodigal penis up Konstaneah's poon, not tonight. We clear?"

The three representatives nodded.

"Good," Arlen sighed. He grabbed a glass of spice wine and returned to the couch. Before long, the rest of the guests began arriving, and Arlen greeted them, each one, as they came in. So did Marqisian, imitating his father. When the last of the children went past him, he smiled at his dad. His accomplished grin faded, gradually, as he noticed the glossy, wet appearance of his father's eyes.

Arlen put his fist over his lips.

"Dad?" Marqisian asked.

He ruffled his son's hair, but didn't look down at him. Instead, he strode out onto the sky deck. He gripped the rail, and only seemed to recognize the thrum of pouring rain and the ardent aroma that belonged to the marsh. His mind wandered back northwest, and 490 years. The Dufontean Hills, where there was thick fog and drenching, dewy mists by day, and slabs of rain each night, was something he had spent an inconsolably long time away from. He missed it.

He didn't react at all when Lellayla said his name. Except when she laid her hand on his wrist, as he was gripping the rail and leaning over it like he was nauseous, did he stop and recognize her.

"Sweetness, your face," she said. "You're whiter than death."

"I know," he said. "Lel, I'm homesick." He was on the verge of tears, and he didn't want to blink because that'd cause them to come down, but soon enough, they did anyway.

"Oh, no, no, no." She sat with him on a bench. "Konstaneah is your home, Arlen, you've lived here all your life."

He laughed, nervously. "Arlen is the name I picked for my birth certificate that I had ratified when I was twenty-four. Before then I was just Marqees, kindred of DuShaffte, forty-seventh born to a family of fifty-six, one of many in the clan. We lived in huts deep within the gaping caverns of the fissures in the Dufontean Hills, that's what we got our clan name from: Dufontean Shafteers, DuShaffte. I'm what we call 'Bog Fodder,' Lel.

"The sad thing about it all is that I never understood why my father, my grand father, great grand father, on and on back, for nearly thirteen generations, were exiled, until I got adventurous and found my dad, here, in the city. He called my mother a dead-beat, lecherous trollop, handed me the clan heirloom, and told me to go show it to her and find out why he felt the way he did. When I was thirty, I did exactly that. I took six hundred fifty Konstanean Tefh with me, and tried to persuade her — them — that we could live well — better, even — in the city. That was the day I got exiled. I did some things, trying to figure out how to survive here; the city has no use for marshboys.

"When I was at my worst, I ran into Aylariun Konstanche, the very last of his kin — the last man of the clan that founded Konstaneah. And he recognized me as a Swamp Child. He took me under his wing, taught me everything I know about being more than just a Ganton, and then he gave me his position with the final words: 'Complacency is the white man's death sentence.' He returned to his clan's homeland sometime after that, where the swamp killed him.

"I don't think, in all my years since, I ever understood what he meant. Not until now."

Lellayla wove her fingers between his and clutched his hand in both of hers. It didn't sound good, everything that he told her. It was one thing to hear the sad tale of his exile from his previous life, but it was another to contemplate why he told her all this. Finally, she worked up enough courage to ask: "Why are you telling me this?"

Another nervous laugh, small, faint. He was pale as a white stone, and his scleras were bloodshot, stricken by morbid sadness. "Because I want you to remember me, Lel. Aylariun was homesick before he left, said that the swamp was 'calling' him."

"No, no." She shook her head. "No, Arlen, no. You're not going anywhere."

"Of course not, Lel. What am I going to do? Grow wings and jump off the sky deck? No."

A small bit of relief surfaced in her eyes.

"But you do make it sound as if I have a choice."

Livelihood marked the grand level. Inside the smooth, one-piece, all-around window that provided the exceptional view, two hundred eighteen guests, and a little over sixty children, were oblivious to Arlen and Lel's absence. Just as they were unconcerned about the four-hours-late chime of the central elevators, as one opened and a familiar, distraught face and equally high-pitched, upsetting voice nearly stumbled to the floor.

"Where is he!?" Sara pathetically pleaded, grabbing at the ankles of anyone who neared her. "Please!" Her cheeks were marred with the hot flow of salted tears. "You have to help me! H-he's doing something — he's did something — to me." She grabbed the hem of Ashabell's coat.

"Woman, are you daft?" Ashabell said, pushing her off of him with his foot and stepping out of her reach. "Get out of here —"

"No," she gasped. "He's the only one that can help me, please, find him for me, please!"

Arlen kissed Lel's hands.

"Tell me you're not mad," she said. "Tell me, please, that your mind is sound."

He stood up and laid his lips to her forehead. A gesture she knew from their early days, almost a century ago, shortly after they had met, when he began to have affection for her. "As sound as clear rain," he said, and drew his gun from the holster strapped to his thigh.

"Arlen," Lel's tone sharply rose. "Arlen!"

The doors to the sky deck opened, and the sound of her voice was drowned out from his ears. He did not hear her call his name a third time, a fourth time, repeatedly, as he strode, calmly, into the grand level. Neither did he hear the sound of music or the laughter of children playing games. It was the thrum of rain that filled his ears, and his stringy blond hair felt to him like it did back then; oily, wet, and plastered to his face. His stride was controlled, meticulous, as he slid his finger around the trigger, and raised the gun.

"Sara!" He called out.

She had just gotten to her feet, turned, and looked at him, when the hollow bang shattered the amenity of the evening. Guests screamed, scattered, ducked, and he stood over her. All the while Marqisian watched, stepping back, wreathed, in pure astonishment, as his father pushed the fallen, bled-out body of his mother onto her back with his foot.

She turned over and her arms flopped, limp. A gaping hole decorated the center of her chest, where parts of both her hearts were missing; smoking, jellied, jiggling wads of black-silver and darkened, coagulating crimson, shoved against the brushed steel of the elevator doors.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Arlen said, breaking the delicate silence. "My sincerest apologies that this shindig has come to a close sooner than planned. But if I may direct your attention to the east stairs, know that everyone will arrive safely at their designated vehicle in the parking garage." He popped out his gun's cylinder and checked the eight chambers. Seven hollow-point bullets, thick as a quarter is round, almost sung to him with their graphite-like sheen.

His ears were deaf to the outraged comments of parents and the distressed cries of children. There wasn't a word that passed the ringing in his ears. Not even Lel's, who was on her knees, clutching Marqisian. Then he looked at her; her reddened, panicky face. She was hysterical, screaming at the top of her lungs. He focused on her lips:

What have you done!?

What are you doing!?

He pushed the cylinder in place, and drew the hammer back. She defensively got between him and Marqisian, hovering over the boy, sobbing, her back to Arlen.

"Simple," he said. "I'm going to kill that bastard she's been with." He flipped his phone out of his rear pants pocket and tossed it to her. "You know what to do, Lel; no matter what, don't come after me."

The main power went out.

Even in the pitch black of Konstaneah's night, Lellayla could read the message on his face: the eerie grin, that said he had no plans to return. She kept screeching his name, but he was simply unable to respond. Then she tried something different:

"Marqees!"

'Marrr-qeeessss.~' He heard the distinct, rolling hiss of his mother's voice.

'Have you any idea what you have done? THIS was never meant for you, Marrr-qees.' He froze in her presence. Her beauty was timeless, even 484 years later, dressed tightly in the skins of ufidens tamed and bred to protect the clan; tall and slender, her long, golden locks an unkempt mess draping over her shoulders.

His eldest brother shoved the gun into his hands. And with a long, narrow, outstretched finger, his mother designated southeast. 'Go,' she seethed, 'and don't you ever —'

"— come back to me, hear?" Lel cried. "Marqees, Arlen, whoever you are, come back, please. Don't do this — you don't have to do this."

He canted his head and narrowed his eyes, furrowed his brows. Now he couldn't say anything, not a word to comfort her. Because, really, she wouldn't understand.

The gears weren't locked, and he easily pulled the elevator shaft doors open.

"Marqees," she cried.

He glanced up-shaft, then down. The cabin was below him, and he dropped down into the shaft.

Of what good was calling security, she didn't know. Lellayla clutched Arlen's cell, her mind blank, just like Marqisian who stood there — wait, Marqisian.

"Marqi, Marqi." She rubbed his pale, shocked and awed face.

He blinked, and his gaze gradually began to focus on her.

"Are you okay?"

He shook his head. "What's with Dad...?"

"I — I'm not sure. Marqi, we need to get out of here."

"But..." He glanced past her at the open shaft doors. "But Dad."

"Marqi, you have to come with me."

"No, I'm not leaving him!" He started to push past her.

She cut him off, holding him in place, her hands on his shoulders. "Marqisian Aylariun DuShaffte, you listen to me!" She jolted him to attention. "Right now, your father is out of his mind. And I, being his wife and having known him since before you were born, know damn well, that he would want us to be safe. So, Marqi, I know you love your dad, but now is not the time to go chasing after his shadow. Let's go."

The emergency generators came on, and some of the lights flickered and whirred to life. Something disturbing caught her attention:

There was a black-silver blot that stained the carpet. Where was the body? Where was Sara?

The dimly lit corridors were unnaturally eerie. Even the up-tunnels, the walkway bridges encased in glass that connected one building to another, were foreboding. On a usual night, one could look and see throngs of throngs of people using them as shortcuts from work, to the mall, to home, to whatever destination was next. But tonight the whole city seemed asleep.

Lellayla grabbed Marqisian's hand. She kept him close behind her, and he stared intently at the floor. Until she pulled him against the up-tunnel dockage wall, behind the door frame. He poked his head around her skirt as she peered into the hall.

The unmistakable brown locks of Sara's hair were up ahead. She hovered over a thrashing sentry. It was strange to watch, how he pushed, being bigger and stronger than her, and yet, despite his might, she was like a lead slab on top of him. Something pearly white jerked out of the hole in her chest.

He flailed, but couldn't throw the dead woman off. Even as his strength waned, he struggled. The pearl streams dribbled down onto his stomach and crept towards his face. He screamed.

Sara clasped her hand over his mouth. "It only takes a moment," she said, sweetly, as the streams lurched forth and bore into his eyes. After he went stiff, she crawled off of him and started down the hall.

Lellayla lunged at the sentry. She wrenched his gun from its holster on his hip, cocked it, and aimed it at the back of Sara's head. "That's a neat trick, getting your chest blown out and walking away from it."

Sara's eyes were solid magenta, except for her pupils, that appeared little more than holes leading into an eerie emptiness. She grinned and scoffed. "Your hands are shaking."

Lel couldn't steady her arms. "So?"

"You can't fire that gun." Sara stepped towards her.

Lel stepped back. "Don't think I won't."

Sara came closer.

Lel fired. Bits of brain and coagulated blood splattered on the walls, and Sara went tumbling onto the floor. Ten rounds, she counted, square between Sara's eyes. She sighed, shivered, and lowered the firearm.

Every door down the hall closed and hissed, sealed shut.

And somehow, she wasn't dead. Ten holes in Sara's intelligence-matter, and she laughed; bits of skull and jellied blood decorated the hall, and she rose stomach-first from the floor and got onto her feet, limber as a ragdoll.

Again, Lel raised the gun and pulled the trigger. It clicked, and the barrel smoked.

Sara's tongue snaked forth. "You just don't get it, do you? I am beyond guns," she sneered. "Maybe you should try swords, you know, hack me to pieces. I'd like something kinky like that. Or perhaps a tomahawk! I sometimes think my hair would look fine on you; I can barely resist a good scalping, you know."

"What are you, a zombie!?" Lel blurted.

Sara stopped and tapped her finger to her chin. "The Golden Rule of the Undead is that if you shoot one in the brain, it stays Dead-dead."

They stared at one another.

"So after ten bullets to my head, we can conclude that I'm not exactly undead." She glanced down at Marqisian. He stood firm, not clinging to or cowering behind Lellayla. In fact he looked upset, like he could punch Sara in the throat if she got down to where he could reach her.

"I wonder what all this is doing to Marqi's ten-year-old brain," Sara said, as she knelt down and ran her fingers through his auburn hair.

He balled his fists. "My dad is going to beam your head off."

"But of course he is," she giggled. "It's a shame you and I weren't closer. But it doesn't matter now. Yonathael wants you."

A sole door opened down the corridor, and within it a light came to life, spilling its luminance on the floor.

"Best not keep him waiting." She smiled.

Marqisian shoved her hand off of him and strode past her.

"Oh, and Lel," Sara said, as the Gantoness moved by. "You can thank him for your borrowed time."

"You snarky —" She turned around, and Sara was nowhere to be seen.

The boy stopped inside the lighted passageway. "Is this the part where you go 'no, this is a bad idea'?" Marqisian asked.

"Yes, Marqi, it is. But..."

The memory of Arlen's voice resounded throughout her mind:'But you do make it sound as if I have a choice.' It was another thing she didn't want to think about, how he sounded as if he was going to meet his fate. Her stomach sank, and her trunk went cold. Sara was merely the distraction. If that was even 'Sara' anymore. Her instincts were to look for a different way. But at the dockage, there was none. Not with every door being locked tight, and the consoles dead because of the power being out.

"But?" Marqisian asked.

She stepped into the light. "Never mind."

The door closed behind her. She didn't take hold of Marqisian as they continued in mirrored paces. Simply, they went on through each door that opened, and after each light that assured their way.

The electric hum of turbines drowned out his footfalls. Even so, Arlen stepped into the lighted gaze of those piercing golden irises; Yonathael was rigid, statuesque, indifferent, and eerily smug.

"I should've let you rot in that lizard's gullet," Arlen said. His hand instinctively moved to the holster on his thigh.

"Bit late for that." Yonathael ran his fingers through his hair. "Anything else you want to say to me before this is ended?"

"Why us," he asked, "what hatred do you have against all of us that you just show up and start wrecking everything?"

"It's nothing personal, you're just a means to an end." The furrowed-browed confusion on Arlen's face made Yonathael smile, as he watched Arlen's ire irrupt into his eyes.

In that moment he didn't bother to think where, Arlen just knew that there were seven bullets, and all of them were subsequently hurtling at Yonathael.

Except that at the twirl of Yonathael's staff, the bullets pinged, each one as it screamed towards him. He literally smacked them away, save for the last one. The air around the final bullet wobbled and distorted, as it came to a sluggish halt. It hovered, and Yonathael pursed his lips as he plucked it from its place. "One for the woman, seven for me. That makes eight rounds. So what are you to do now, hm? Resort to fisticuffs?"

Arlen gave Yonathael a sarcastic, arched-browed look, and held the trigger back. At half-pull, the gun's cylinder locked into place, and in the dark of the gun's barrel there was a glow like hot coals. Finally, he pulled the trigger, and without so much as a click and a bang, a beam of unbridled energy violently burst forth from the mouth of the hand cannon.

A half-second wasn't enough time to react. Yonathael screamed, although he ducked behind a generator, cradling his arm where his remaining flesh was smoldering; a chunk of him was seared clean off. Neither did he have time to sit and gather his senses. The faintest whirr betrayed that the gun was charged, and when that whirr heightened its pitch, the thing was spewing energy.

He clutched his staff and vaulted right. A half-second to react, three and a half seconds to recharge.

And Arlen didn't rightly care if every generator in the wing turned into volatile gasses. When Yonathael ducked right, he fired ahead of him, then behind him, trapping him in the middle. He kept the barrel of his gun dead center, level with the floor, as he strode, preeminently, towards what remained of a large transistor. The way he envisioned it was simple and purely satisfying:

There, cowered Yonathael, as Arlen waltzed up to him, on the other side of the ruined transistor. His gun primed, he pointed it at the top of Yonathael's skull, and just as he glanced up to plead for mercy, Arlen fired —

The blunt end of the staff whipped his hands. Arlen yelped, dropped the gun, and shrank back.

Yonathael didn't care where the firearm went. His visage was wild, thrilled, and pleased, as he lunged and smashed his staff into Arlen's face. His head snapped to the left, and blood spluttered from his lips and nose. Yonathael twirled his staff and thrust its blunt end into Arlen's stomach.

The blond man bowed forward, but staggered back, narrowly missing the downward blow Yonathael intended for the back of his head. He folded one arm over his belly and withdrew behind the chassis of one of the rotors.

"You think you can hide from me?" Yonathael mockingly cooed. "I know you, Arlen, I've known you, I know everything there is to know about you. And you think that cowering behind a rotor is going to help!?"

His gun gleamed cool blue under the emergency light. It was right there, to his left, against the wall, just a hop, skip, and three vaults away. He could get it, he could. He only had to do it right.

"Or is it a little game you want to play?" Yonathael chuckled. "Tell you what, I'll guess, and you tell me if I'm right." He leveled the staff with his waist, as his eyes steadily roved from coil to coil. He knew which one Arlen was behind. The question was: which one was he going to move to?

Arlen leaped left.

"What!?" Yonathael thrust the U-shaped end of his staff at the rotor Arlen moved to, and with almost no resistance, the thick bolts anchoring it to the floor strained, broke, and the rotor went soaring into the wall. "You don't want to ENTERTAIN ME!?"

Arlen vaulted left again, rolled and snatched a disconnected lead pipe.

Again Yonathael thrust, and the second rotor went just like the first. Only, this time, instead of continuing left, he scowled as Arlen went back cross-ways; right, and forward, towards Yonathael.

He was quick, the lead pipe clutched low in his grip like a battle axe ripe for cleaving someone's chest in. Arlen rushed upon Yonathael, and swung that pipe upwards, aimed dead for Yonathael's chin.

The staff came between them. Arlen pushed until his veins bulged so much, they appeared as if they were going to burst. And Yonathael intently pushed back with the power emanating from his staff. The two were locked in place, caught in a desperate tug-of-war; both bent on giving his adversary nothing; both bent on stealing his opponent's all.

"If you're so powerful," Arlen heaved, "put that stick down and take me on like a man!"

Sweat amplified Yonathael's devilish smile. How little Arlen understood.

"Come on," Arlen grunted. "What are you, waiting for something!?"

"Yes," Yonathael said.

"Dad!" Marqisian's voice was like the high-pitched chirp of a distressed songbird. He gazed down from the walkway at the two of them. And it was all too late for Arlen to realize that Yonathael was stalling, biding his time, waiting — for Marqisian.

"These," Yonathael hissed lowly, almost like a whisper, "are such precious moments." He put his weight behind the staff, and leaned it towards Arlen.

Despite his strength, the pipe flew out of Arlen's hand, upwards, and shattered the glass casing of the walkway. His son ducked and covered his head with his arms. Glass flew everywhere. And at the mere inclination of Yonathael's staff, the mid-section of the walkway groaned, bent, and broke apart.

Marqisian gripped the metal for his life, as the separated ends of the walkway dropped and the long path dangled, swinging like windswept vines at its middle.

"Marqster!" In an instant, Arlen forgot about Yonathael. Nevermind the struggle, he dashed for his son.

Just as he was about under Marqisian, Yonathael tossed the final bullet up into the air like a coin. He took a half-step back, and readied his staff, keeping his eyes on Arlen. When the bullet came low enough, he put the staff's power to it. And like the cannister of a rail gun, the bullet made its mark with unfathomable speed.

Marqisian dropped into the safety of his father's arms.

"Marqi, you're alright?" Arlen asked.

Marqisian nodded. "Yeah."

Arlen put him down, and leaned back against the wall. His wan face, as he slid down and sat, reflected a saddened, sorrowful smile.

Marqisian knew, but he didn't want to believe it. He sat down in his father's lap, and rested his head near Arlen's chest. The beats of his hearts were funny: one fluttered a little more than normal, the other didn't beat at all. His shirt was wet and sticky around the right side of his chest, turned black by blood, and silver over the wound.

"You're not okay, are you?" Marqisian asked.

Arlen ruffled Marqisian's hair, and did his best to look as though it was merely a flesh wound. He kissed his son on his forehead. "I love you, boy."

The boy's eyes began to water.

"It's okay to cry, Marqi. As much as I hate to see you do it," Arlen said, wiping a stray tear from his son's cheek. "I need you to be strong for me, and watch out for Lel and your sister. You got that?"

Marqisian sniffed. He started to shake his head no, but nodded anyway.

"That's my little tough-man," Arlen said. He lay down on his side, and closed his eyes. His son huddled close to him, under his arm, and sobbed, as he gradually, hesitantly, reluctantly, fell asleep.

Some time passed. Minutes or hours, no one really knew. But the touch of Lellayla's warm, cinnamon-skinned hands startled Marqisian.

She didn't say anything, she was just on her knees. Arlen was cold by then. And Marqisian almost clung to his father's stiff corpse as if he could put some warmth — put some life — back into him. But when Lellayla opened her arms, he crawled out from his father, and embraced her.

He cried.

Inconsolable, she didn't try to comfort him. She just let him wail until the waterworks of his eyes shut off, and he could utter no more.

It was time to face the truth: Arlen was dead, and they needed to move on.

Lellayla fished Arlen's phone out of her pocket. She expected a certain voice to ask: 'What are you doing?' But Marqisian didn't have words. She watched him stand there until the other end of the call answered.

"Thirty-one-twenty-six, what can I do for you?" The operator asked.

"This is..." She didn't know what to say, not really. She looked, distantly, at Arlen's dead body.

"This is...?"

"This is Arch Gantoness Lellayla DuShaffte, I'm declaring an emergency."

The call was stark silent. "Ma'am, the Arch Ganton is —"

"I said: I am Lellayla DuShaffte, Arch Gantoness, and I'm declaring an emergency. I need all available personnel in the west annex of the Embassy immediately."

The operator hurriedly tapped in her orders. "Ma'am, what about house security?"

"As of this evening, house security is compromised. Again, I want every official we have."

"Ma'am!"

The officers were wet when they arrived. But the blankets they draped around Lel and Marqi were thick, comfortable, heavy, and warm. They snapped pictures of Arlen, and asked Lel what she knew. Then they came to Marqisian, but he just stared at the body. The officers went back to her. As they jotted down her statement and grilled her for anything else she may have known in the slightest, Marqisian wandered around the generators.

There it was, gleaming cool blue under the emergency light, by the wall. The mouth of the barrel looked like the gaping jaws of an ufiden. Its trigger guard was notched, mimicking the wide scales of the lizard's belly. The hammer reflected the bending tail, and the sight was the prominent, curled horn of the ufiden's crown. And the handle was wrapped tight in genuine ufiden skin.

He picked it up and stuffed it down his pants, the same way he'd seen his father do, and concealed the rest under his shirt.

"Marqi," Lel called for him.

He closed the front of his blanket and steadily strode to her.

"We're leaving," she said.

He was inclined to ask where to, but maybe it was better to let her make these decisions without his constant questioning. After all, she had become a widow, and in the process, inherited a nation. And his father would tell him to stand down and let her make a strong impression for herself.

"Lastly," she turned to the officers. "Search the entire premises. The man who did this, and Sara's corpse, have to still be here, somewhere. I want to lay my fists on her before she's burned, and see him brought to justice."

The officers thudded their fists to their chests, between their hearts. "It will be done, Ma'am!"

A helo hovered close to the Embassy's west wing exit when Lellayla and Marqisian stepped outside. The great curtain was gone, and the water poured down. It was the strangest thing, the deafening downpour, as it flooded the city streets and threatened to invade ground-level homes. The helo's rain shield kept them dry, for the most part, as they shuffled through the dense, dank air and into the cabin.

The Helomaster shut the doors with the flick of his finger, and before long, they were smoothly up in the air, and off, eastwards.

It was worthwhile to stare out the window, as the rains let up and the ground went from bog, to swamp, to marshland, and finally to dry, grassy planes. Soon, the air became dry, and the grass below turned into brown patches that speckled the land as the soil mixed with sand. The black, tan, and white dunes shifted like snakes in the wind.

As nightfall crept across the horizon, and the pinkish-purple hues of the daytime sky receded, the capitol of Alekzandrya — the City of Nine Rooks, Alekzandrya herself — was alight like a beacon in the distance. She straddled a deep, winding river that stretched from her north shore clear to her southeastern banks, and the majesty of her sheer breadth, girth, and height made her foes reconsider each time they wanted to take her. The top tier, Highbar, alone, fondled the bottom of the clouds.

It was a lot to take in, especially for Lellayla, who gripped the arms of her seat and pushed back. She crossed her legs, panted, and bobbed, hoping no one would notice that she was wet. The helo touched down on an outstretched landing dock that extended from the side of the neck of Nexus's central tower, the Forty-fifth. She hesitated to get out of her seat, rising slowly. Hot, electric aches shot down her legs. She groaned, and nearly fell. The Helomaster and Marqisian helped her down and walked her to the doors.

Anileon's unamused face was far from a warm reception. The weary koja eyed them suspiciously. "Since when is it acceptable to arrive in the middle of the night unannounced? Are you aware how rude this is?"

"We've an emergency," Lel panted.

"What emergency?" Anileon's voice was as rigid as his posture.

Lellayla's visage contorted into an anguished grimace. "Please, may we come in? I can explain everything inside —"

"You are aware that no one in Alekzandrya wants you, yes? We'll take the boy, but you can go back to your home, unless by your husband's order —"

"Arlen — is — dead," she exclaimed. "All I'm asking for is a Sanctuary, just for the night. You can throw me out as early as dawn if you like." Tears streamed down her cheeks. And yet Anileon's apathy was impenetrable.

He parted his lips to speak, but the smooth, sultry voice of Her Grace rang through the air:

"Must we stay up half the night debating what may or may not have happened? Let her in, Tsuboha, and come to bed." Mylisto motioned for them to enter.

"My Grace." Anileon crouched and bowed, splaying his ears back. "I am more than willing to do as you say, yet my only protest is that she is a Hedonite."

Mylisto's gaze seemed skeptical at best. Her narrowed eyes were deterring, and her upright posture made her seem prudent. Still, she settled her keen eyes on Lellayla, and the infliction that seemed to only grow worse. More important than that, her skirt was wet. "Ready the birthing pool, and bring the assistance seat," she said.

Anileon flicked his ear. "Mylisto, she is —"

"We will not turn away our allies in their hour of need, regardless of racial descent. This is final. Now come, Tsuboha, or I will have you punished."

He thudded his palm to his chest and bowed his head. "As you say."

The assistance chair was soft to the touch, and contoured to Lellayla's shape. It floated on air, hovering between two nurses without a sound. The birthing pools were a method of childbearing Lel had never heard of. But as they neared the pool, its bubbling sound was calming. The water was neither too shallow or too deep, not too hot or too cold. In fact ,it was soothing, as they settled her into the rolling waters.

How long she had to stay there was beyond her, but the more time she spent in those waters, the better she felt. She came to a point where the contractions didn't bother her at all, and she was almost dazed, purring. She was ready, and accepted the watery warmth that filled her clear to the lips of her cervix. She felt the final tumble, and groaned as the head pushed through. An estranged motley of sensations reverberated throughout her core:

Happiness, pleasure, relief, accomplishment, expectation; agony, heartache, depression, abandonment.

Soon enough, Lellayla pushed the afterbirth into the water. They severed Laylen's cord, and made certain she was alive and could breathe, then drained the water, draped Lel in a robe, and helped her up into the hovering chair. And on this occasion, normally permeated with joy, the medical staff stood silent. It was a broken picture: Lellayla tenderly cradled Laylen.

And she wept.

During that same hour, Yonathael crept along, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. The walls were distorted, wobbling, twisting, and swirling as if they were mocking him.

▼ The generators,'he strained to project his thoughts, are down.

╟ I can hear it, Sara said. The great sheet of rain was no light drizzle as it came down. It cracked against the ground, having fallen like sheets of steel, and it boomed on every building. Afterwards, the heavy droplets thrummed on the exterior, making a barrage of loud, arrhythmic sounds, like soldier boys scattering to war while beating their drums.

▼ G-good. Einarreal, he gasped and nearly staggered to the floor. I'm not going to make it to the cisterns.

A catty smile rose on her lips. Finally, some long coveted recognition.

╟ You don't sound so good, Mokallai.

He grunted, not that he didn't like the sound of his name; he didn't want to be found out.

▼ That infernal blond — were it not for that ill-gotten child, he'd have done me in. You'll have to proceed, without me.

╟ Are you sure you don't want me to come spot you?

▼ No, he growled. Do as planned; I need more Iisae.

╟ If you insist.

He couldn't take another step. His body grew heavy, and his arms wanted to dangle from their sockets. He leaned on the staff, but soon crumbled to his knees. He clutched the wood, but his eyes were flickering, and finally, he fell face-first to the floor.

Disorientation was normal after blacking out. But Yonathael could never get used to it. His chest heaved as he gasped and cried out, rolling onto his side. His violet-burgundy eyes stung, as if he had rubbed course grains of salt into them. He had no clue where he was, or how he had gotten into this dark, cold place, or why the rain sounded like fists beating on the building.

He barely remembered a white man's face. He was a blond man, and a furious one. Yonathael pushed up off of the floor. He sat against the wall, peering down both ends of the corridor. Arlen, that was his name. How long had it been since they had last visited? Two hundred some-odd years now? Why was he angry? His stomach writhed, and he trembled, holding his knees to his chest, when his eyes settled on a peculiar staff beside him. It was out of place, but more than that, he recognized it. And his eyes started to water.

What now? What had he done now?

No, it couldn't be that he — no, he didn't kill him, he couldn't, he wasn't a murderer!

Or maybe the spirit forced him to do it.

The sounds of boots clacking intently down the corridor stole his attention. He got up and ran towards the officers. "I submit, I submit!" Yonathael shouted, holding his open hands in front of him for them to see that he was unarmed. He got down on his knees, and as they neared, put his hands behind his head.

"Identify yourself," an officer said.

"Yonathael," he said, between excited breaths, "Yonathael Illandel Alekzandyr. Whatever my crimes, please, I ask to be tried in the kingdom of my nativity."

The officers exchanged quizzical glances.

"The Yonathael Alekzandyr?" the second officer asked. "As in, the founder of Alekzandrya?"

Yonathael nodded. "Uh-huh."

The second officer whistled, and the first one laughed nervously.

"This is beyond high treason," the second officer said to his comrade. "This is like what you get when suicide rapes a coup d'etat."

"Have you any idea what the penalty is?"

"Yes, I do," Yonathael grunted. "I'm well versed in law, now, please, can we get on with it?"

"Why the rush?" the first officer mockingly asked.

"If you want to, I mean it's not my rear that needs covering anyway." The second officer clasped the impelling choker around Yonathael's neck, as his partner fixed the cuffs to his wrists.

He had a limited range of movement. His hands couldn't move more than six inches away from his body, but he could carry them low, at his leisure. It didn't take long for them to gather the appropriate documentation files and load him onto a helo. Before the night ended, he was on his way. Most would feel relieved, heading in a familiar direction to a familiar place. Yonathael stared contritely at the helo's floor.

He didn't like the idea of home.
Ma'Aukja.

(Brotherhood)

Schiivas, the 1st day of the month of Suras, 7╥453.

It was the pleasant, spicy-sweet scent of burning hasiba wood that wafted through the air. The Kyusoa arranged themselves around the bonfire. They stretched out their arms and spaced themselves from one another accordingly. Then, in concentric rings, they danced in circles around the fire.

Their music, from the strum of their stringed instruments, to the wail of their horns, the sigh of their reed-flutes and the rhythm of their drums, roused a sense of belonging in Rollond. As he sat with Ashenzsi and the older Kojas, he wanted to go down there and join the dance. He wanted to spin around in circles and move, left-left-right-left-right-right-left, with them around the twisting, towering flames that burned dark crimson and vibrant hues of cyan and green.

When one got dizzy and tumbled out of the ring, another jumped right in, immediately falling in lockstep with those dancing around them. It was a display of unity amongst themselves, how they followed each others movements with exacting precision. And yet, each one did their own thing.

Waves of longing buffeted Rollond as he watched, and noted that:

They are — 'complex.'

They are sophisticated in their own way.

Just a few days with these creatures reveals more about ourselves than them. They're far from human. Yet I can't shake this feeling that the reason they're far from us, is because, despite seeming simple-minded and driven by instinct, they're above us.

It's hard to accept. I don't like thinking that Ashenzsi, on an existential level, is greater than I am. I'm no peddler of philosophy, but I can't help it. I mean, when he sits down next to me just outside our 'home' that we share in common, I often wonder if he feels the same way.

It's worth asking, I think. There is this thing in my mind. It's like an unbreakable glass door. I can peer through it and silently see what he's up to, or I can 'knock' and see if he'll answer me. I've taken to calling it 'pinging', because when he does it, that's exactly what it feels like: a splash in water, ripples, and a considerably unimposing, gentle ring.

I knock on the feral door.

He meets me and peers through his end. 'Tsche — yes?'

'You ever think about Humanity?'

He flicks his ears. 'How do you mean?'

'Like, how we are, you know, in comparison to your kind?'

He looks past me to see where I am. 'You have your strengths. Whatever you set your minds on, you do, like us. Yet you are a stubborn species, not like us. You think the world is yours, alone, to do what you will. You destroy our homes, invade our territories and take our precious things; capture us like mere typhods; beat, humiliate, skin and kill us; our children you hate, and keep like pets. So we hate you. But we respect that you have life, like us, and hope, maybe one day, you will change. Then we can share our precious things, and hopefully you will share yours with us.'

'Do you hate me?' I ask.

'You have proven different. I hope you remain that way.' He smiles.

I hope so, too.

"I don't get it," Rollond said. "What's all the dancing for?"

"Appraisal," Ashenzsi said. "This is the meaning of the Virgin Price, that the shojen, proficient in what he does best, is given his worth and becomes a koja. See, look!" He pointed at the ambo, as the kyusoa's dancing came to a stop.

Several young males were lined up on the raised platform. Some of them stood tall, proud, their shoulders squared, staring dead ahead with an almost stoic, stern visage. Others were giddy, and couldn't stand still as Tschoka stepped onto the ambo. She held a bowl of something dark, oily and ink-like in one hand, and a brush in the other.

She took her time with each one, kissing him on the forehead, she spoke with him briefly, then dipped the brush in the oil-ink and wrote on his belly starting from his navel and moving outwards. On his chest she appended what it was that merited his value, and ultimately made him a 'grown man'. Afterwards, they joined the others, and the music and dancing resumed.

Rollond rubbed his chin. "What would, say, an outsider like yourself have to do to get one?"

"He must be known throughout the Commune; he must do something great," Ashenzsi said. "Or else why appraise someone who is here today, and tomorrow he is gone? We much prefer our own blood. But if he comes and he does something grand, no matter where he goes, the pride of the Commune is with him. Why?"

"Just curious," he said. Rollond stood up and patted his pants down. The Kyusoa made the best pants he'd ever worn. It was like having silk flowers massage his genitals, as he walked over to where the older Kojas gathered. None of them looked a day older than their young contemporaries. Not even Tschorra, who seemed significantly aged by his demeanor.

He stopped and got down on his knees. "Schyiqar," he said.

Their chatter ceased. Tschorra didn't say anything, he just looked at Rollond.

"I know I can help you with your human problem."

Tschorra arched his brows.

"I have a plan —"

The Schyiqar raised his hand, and Rollond shut up. "I will see you before the dawn. Come to my home, we will speak then. Be timely, for if my Tsamiiq wakes before you finish your point, you will not be considered."

"Right," Rollond said. "I mean — tsche!" He bowed, and went home.

Rest didn't come to him at all. His mind raced, back to the one warehouse and being crammed in the vents, crawling along until he came to another room. The surface had to have some kind of defenses. It had to, or else how would it defend against Kyusoakin raids? They wouldn't have these problems if it was a matter of kicking the door in and blowing the freigannen out of everything.

He noticed, when Ashenzsi sauntered in on all-fours with So'yi giggling on top of his head, that the music had died down, and everyone seemed to quietly return to their homes. After the two settled into their places, he dragged himself out of the bed, and started for the Tsamiiq and Schyiqar's home.

Even inside the mountain, the night air was brisk. His skin rippled. The walk from where he stayed to their place was long. Still, he trekked from one end of the plateau to the other, with the homes that dotted the kyusoakin-made mesas. Finally, when he arrived, Tschorra was already waiting for him.

He sat on his haunches, and bobbed his head, greeting Rollond, and with a swish of his tail and the flick of his paw, he motioned for the man to sit. "Now, this plan of yours," Tschorra said.

Rollond nodded. He took a stick from a pile of dry kindle beside Tschorra's home, and started drawing in the sand. He drew several squares and connected them with parallel lines, then drew a single line at the top and placed the warehouse's main intake chamber there. He pointed at the main intake chamber. "This is the main entrance. I'm willing to bet that most of the defenses for the entire facility are focused here. When they see you coming, they know precisely what to do so as to keep you out."

"Tsche, is true," Tschorra said. "We have not gained any advantage from here." He drew circles in the sand, representing his kin, and curved lines showing where they typically focused their strikes.

"So, here's what I know." Rollond directed Tschorra's attention to the subterranean sections. "There is a disconnected floor plan. The rooms are sealed, no way in, no way out, except for either the warp grid, or through the ventilation system." He pointed at the parallel lines he made, that connected each square. "Not every room is the same, nor do all of them house your kind. But I do know the deepest one does." He glanced at Tschorra.

The Schyiqar narrowed his eyes. It was wisdom and consideration that gleamed in them. "How many of us are you asking for?"

"There are those who burrow through the sand with ease. If you will allow me three of them, we can tunnel into the bottom chamber, quickly release whomever is contained there, and work our way up. I will be going with them, because once we breach the surface from inside the facility, I plan to set off the self-destruct."

Tschorra scratched his chest. "You have cunning in your rou'u," he said. "But she is not for you." He got on all his palms and shook his mane like a horse. Then he smiled at Rollond. "That is why, now, you must tell her yourself. I appreciate that you came to me, and I see your value. But she must see you for herself, with her own heart."

Dawn started to filter down from the skylight carved out of the mountain. Tschorra loped up the spiral of his home to the top where he sat, poised like a lion, his head held high and his shoulders squared. When the light touched him he took a deep breath, raised his haunches, and unleashed such a proud roar that even the great sharrs of Dyjian would lower themselves in respect. As soon as he spent the one breath, he took another, as deep as the first, and cried out again.

Soon enough, the entire Commune collected before him.

"Tschorra, enough," Tschoka snarled as she sauntered out.

He dropped down from the peak of their home, and he tried to wrap an arm around her and nibble her neck. She shoved him off, irate that he summoned them all so early after their festive night.

"What is the purpose of all this?" Tschoka asked.

Tschorra strode over to Rollond and sat beside him. He looked him in the eye, then motioned for him to go forth with the cant of his head.

"My Tsamiiq," Rollond said.

Tschoka narrowed her eyes at the drawings in the sand. "You have been consulting with this outsider?" she asked Tschorra.

"I have a plan that will help with your human problem —"

"I am not talking to you!" she boomed. "Stupid Uunan, can't you understand? YOU are our problem!"

"Forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but —"

"How about you sheathe your tongue before I rip it out from behind your teeth!" She started for Rollond, but Tschorra got between them.

The eyes of the entire Commune were on them. Dissent between the Schyiqar and the Tsamiiq was significant. To the common kyusoa it demonstrated that kojas were allowed to blatantly disregard their owners, and the carefully maintained dominance of the tyihas would be difficult to recover. It was bad enough their numbers were dwindling because of captures; Tschoka couldn't afford disunity.

"Has he turned you against me?" she asked.

"At least hear him out," Tschorra said.

She growled, but sat down and motioned for Rollond to speak.

"What I have drawn here is what I know of the layout of the warehouses. As I've explained to Tschorra, your kin are stored in the deepest chamber. If three of your kind that tunnel through the sand would come with me, we can easily breach the lowest room and work our way to the surface, whereat, I plan to blow the place into oblivion. I have come to ask you for these three."

She arched her brows and rubbed her chin with the back of her hand. "And who will support you on this?"

"I will." Ashenzsi stepped forth.

Tschoka skeptically stared him down. "You are willing to give your life on behalf of this Uunan?"

"Tsche," he said. "This, my ma'aukja, saved me. It is the least that I owe him."

Tschoka laughed and paced around in circles. "Madness," she exclaimed. "You know as well as I do that all Uunani are for selfish means!"

"That's not true!" So'yi's small voice struggled to match the thunder of Tschoka's, but when she sounded out of anger, the kyusoa near her stepped out of her way. She hopped up to Ashenzsi and held onto his shin. "What do I have that is of interest to him?" She pointed at Rollond. "Nothing! But if it weren't for him, neither of us would be here. Now he offers to help the lot of you. I say let him; since when have your efforts proved successful?" She had a point.

Finally, Tschoka sighed. She twirled a dreadlock around her finger. "Those who are as he requires..." her eyes roved over the gathered masses. "Show yourselves."

At the command of her voice, Rollond saw them change. It wasn't instantaneous with a flash of light or a whiff of smoke, but their bodies — some of them were mutable. It was amazing to see the elasticity of their skin, shifting like hot resin for the alarmingly rapid growth of bones, organs, and muscles; their bodies reshaped effortlessly.

By the end of it all, it was hard to believe. That they went from the human-like body, with hand-like feet at the base of their tri-jointed legs, a long tail, and stretchy torso, with noses like men and pointed ears like a jackal atop their heads, to the very expression of menace and hatred; these were the Sandwyrks, the Trap-jaws, the Cloud-razers, and innumerable other creatures around the world.

And Rollond was the first man to see it happen. There was a reason they raided villages and terrorized Man while in these forms. Men dread what they don't understand, despise what they can't control, loathe what they fear — most importantly, fear kept Man away from the stark truth.

"Choose your three," Tschoka said.

"You, and you, what are your names?"

Two were older males, their hardened exteriors adorned with well-earned scars.

"Begomzsi," said the first.

"Injolea," said the second.

Rollond nodded, and the third one he called by name: "Kiyurim!"

The three came forth.

"Today we free your people, tonight we celebrate a reunion. By this time tomorrow, they will regret how they disrespected all Kyusoa."

The thunderous roar of approval, the rolling clap of their hands, the shrill utterance of trilling tongues, all of it was music to Rollond's ears. His hearts fluttered.

Tschoka brushed past him. "Let us hope your actions are with your tongue."

The southern sun burned white-gold at their backs. Rollond had to shield the hologram that radiated from the palm of his glove from the sun. The moving blip was him, and the red splotches that sprinkled the desert were the warehouses. He zoomed in on the one closest to them.

"Begomzsi, Injolea, we're going under." At the command of his voice, the two older Wyrks took their positions side-by-side ahead of him. They lurched into the sand as if it was water. Kyiurim followed them.

The tunnel was just wide enough for Rollond and Ashenzsi to lean near to Kiyurim's back and slip through the sand before it collapsed behind them. The Wyrks raced through the sand. They dove down as far as the lowest chamber, like Rollond said, and with astonishing ease, they broke through; the metal of the underground chambers cracked open like a smashed peanut shell.

It was just like the last one: the tanks were arrayed in meticulously straight rows, each one numbered, filled with that wretched goop, and the kyusoa floated, his toes at least a hand and a half's length from the tank's bottom.

Rollond dismounted Kiyurim, and flicked his bony blade. "The glass should break easily, so be mindful not to slice anyone through. Ashenzsi and I will be up there." He pointed at the warehouse command. "I doubt we'll be able to get them all through the sand. When you've finished, wait for my instructions."

The three Wyrks rumbled and bowed their bodies to the floor.

As Rollond walked to the conveyor, the elegant sound of shattering glass mingled with the low rumble of his company's growls, and he continued on, as if in slow motion to menacing guitar rifts and imaginary explosions. He was grandiloquent.

Not a damn thing bothered him, as the breach sirens went off, and the crew in the warehouse command scrambled. The lift lowered, he stepped on, and the lift raised.

Swagger.

The crew darted down the corridor to the stairwell, locked, and sealed it behind them.

"Not this again," Ashenzsi sighed.

Rollond shrugged, looming over the console — the exact same one he put his fist through. There was a button he smashed in his impatience last time. Simply, it looked like a common O key, except that the letter was in the middle of it. How unassuming. "See if you can seal that vent off," he said.

"Right." Ashenzsi ducked into the crew closet. Most of the lockers had lettered combination locks, and worse yet, keypads with random words on the keys. Usually this wouldn't be a problem, except that he couldn't read Gyuton. So he started pushing buttons. The locks were designed to open with a simple phrase. On the locker he stood at, there was a picture of a small, winged, bear-cat. What was the Gyutic word for the small, winged-bear-cat?

Sharr.

There was a great possibility that the phrase to open that locker was 'I love my sharr,' or 'Watoz et itch myne sharr.'

But alas, Ashenzsi didn't know that. It vexed him so much that he finally hopped back, screamed, and blasted it open with a swift eruption of fire big as a baseball. And not just that one. He hurled fireballs at all of them.

When Rollond peered through the doorway at him, Ashenzsi smoldered and huffed. When he noticed Rollond looking, he put his hands on his hips and stood tall, grinning broadly, posing, proud.

"... Right," Rollond said. "How come you didn't do that last time?"

Ashenzsi shrugged. "I didn't know that I could."

Rollond's eye twitched. How could he not know? Seriously, how? He huffed and pushed the O key. There wasn't a chime or any immediate, discernible reaction. He wasn't sure what he did, until he strode over to the window and looked down onto the warehouse floor.

The bodies on the floor started to move. Most of them were groggy, but when they realized where they were, they jumped at each other, confused, startled.

"Fair morning!" As Rollond spoke, they moved so they could see him. "I am Rollond Alekzandyr, and with me are Ashenzsi, Injolea, and Begomzsi. We are from Hydarkua, to the east. We have come to set you free, but before you are turned loose, I have a very simple proposal."

They were quiet, attentive.

"I am searching for the man who is the head of these operations. I plan to put an end to him. To do that, I require the cooperation of every willing Kyusoa I can find. We will break into every warehouse, until we find this man, and like we have done with you, we will set every Kyusoa stored there free.

"If you are agreeable to this, I ask only these few things of you: Go in my name, that Rollond Alekzandyr sent you; do not kill, but spare every human life you can, to prove who the desperate, conniving animals are; free your kin, but should you come across the man, Fylus, whom these humans answer to, bind him and bring him east to Hydarkua, to me.

"Because I will deal with him myself."

"What if we do not consent?" One of them asked. "How do we know you are not the same as the Uunani who trapped us here?"

"Try me," Rollond said. "If you refuse, go your way. I am not a pandering slave monger." He pointedly didn't give them instructions to separate. How were they going to get out of the warehouse if they were divided from the start? Most of them had sandy complexions and dreadlocks, characteristic of what he had seen at Hydarkua. There were some variants, but the ones who stood out to him the most were pitch black with a motley of splotches.

"You there," Rollond said, pointing at one of the irregular, spotted kyusoakin. "Who are you, where are you from?"

"Neaatl," he said between titters. "T-t-this one is from Scinon, Malzeyur." He fidgeted, and could not stop giggling; an unusually high-strung creature.

"Are you like these?" Rollond motioned towards the Sandwyrks with him.

Neaatl nodded furiously. "N-n-n—tsche, yes. You Uunani," he gasped and put his hands over his mouth, glancing around nervously, "call us," he lowered his hands and crouched, "'Vile-maws'." He laughed hysterically. "Because when we spit!" His tone rose, "it really is an! — ugly thinnng." He almost whispered when he finished.

Rollond inhaled deeply and balled his fists. The way Neaatl talked, he wanted to punch him. After a few seconds, he was calm. "Show me," he said.

Vile-maws were frog-like things. They had long, narrow, feline backs and winding, snaking tails with a spear-like protrusion at the end. Their chests were heavy, and at the back of their rib cage was the bubble, like at a frog's neck. But Neaatl's gaping, slobbering jaws were colored with the nastiest greenish-yellow-reddish-brown mucus.

He puffed up his air sack, and from the back of his throat, catapulted a steaming wad of that disgusting stuff, big as a harvest pumpkin. That stuff smacked into the command's window and as soon as it touched, the glass bubbled, cracked and steamed; acid — Vile-maws spew highly corrosive mucus. And it had such a rank, nauseating stink.

Rollond nearly fainted backwards; Ashenzsi held him up with one hand, covered his nose and mouth with the other.

"Vlawdts," Rollond swore, "foul! Get up here!"

Neaatl came through the sizzling, melting remains of the window. Rollond pointed at the stairwell door, and Neaatl spit at it. Between the window and the melting layers of the door, the stench was overwhelming, but when the metal shifted down from its sockets like steaming, hot wax, Rollond shuffled back and lowered the conveyor. "This way," he announced.

Not one of them moved. They exchanged glances among themselves; some shook their heads, others sat on their hinds.

"Go ahead of ussss," Neaatl said, as he stepped aside and pointed at the stair well.

Rollond furrowed his brows, balled his fist and tapped it to his lips. Of course they didn't trust him. No one places their life in the hands of a complete stranger. He glanced at Ashenzsi. 'What did I do to gain your favor?' he asked.

'Be true by your Rou'u,' Ashenzsi said. 'What we cannot see, that is what we witness; what we perceive with our eyes, this we disregard. Because the trustworthy things are deep, far within the body; the Rou'u.'

Rollond rubbed his temples. Why? Why do these creatures have to be so cryptic? "Okay," he sighed, and went into the stairwell.

The Hedonites had cleared out of the reception chamber. Rollond stepped onto the cool, glossy pad and in the blink of an eye, emerged in the warehouse hub. The distorted gravity was nauseating in the dome-like cluster of warps; what happened when there were too many of them in one place. There was no indication of where they went, just numbers and letters that gave some sense of direction.

He went 384-N.

This section of the warehouse was eerily quiet, save for the electric hum of the lights. Was the place abandoned? Or were they hiding out with eager fingers on a trigger? Rollond walked noisily down the short hall from the reception chamber. Anyone there would have shot him by the time he got to the console, unless they wanted him to take a look at the projection that hovered over it.

Either way, it didn't matter, as he ran his finger though a diagram of the warehouse. He traced around the bottom section and enlarged it. It was filled with orange dots, that when enlarged, formed the body shapes of the Kyusoakin. He could see what they were doing, even down to the detail of what direction they looked when they turned their heads.

He drew the image upwards, to the hub, then up a little more. The heart of the warehouse's operations was right above the hub, accessible through a small shaft. Below the hub was the reactor. The other chambers were arranged around these three, except for the main entrance, which was given a larger warp than other sections; it was marked 064-C.

The diagram was useful. He wondered if the other warehouses were similar as he steadily swept his hand through the image, and clutched it in his palm. He assigned the diagram to the middle finger of his right hand, and when he touched that finger to his palm, his glove ceased projecting.

He returned to the hub, where his movements were sluggish. He kicked off from the floor, and floated, slowly, towards the barely noticeable opening in the dimly lit ceiling. Clutching the rungs of a ladder, Rollond pulled himself into the cardinal control room, only to find its commands undisturbed, and the space between its walls abandoned.

Apparently they knew, he had no doubts about it now; they forsook the warehouse. Relief tumbled around his ribs as he hovered over the controls. The self-destruct sequence consisted of four levers: two of them were pull-down switches, the other two were wrench-up-and-twist mechanisms; there was a need for a key of some sort, and finally a less-than-foreboding purplish-cyan button under a fiberglass case. Ten minutes, he figured, was all he needed to get everyone out and blow this place.

Surprisingly, the sequence didn't have to be precisely synchronized. It did have to be done right, though. He pulled the first lever down, lifted the second, twisted it clockwise. Then he raised the third, twisted it counter-clockwise, pulled down the fourth lever, and rubbed his chin as he examined the fiberglass case. He didn't have the key to open it.

But since when did he need a key?

He smashed the case with a considerably gentle tap of his fist, and took particular care to push the button down — until it jammed.

Nine minutes, fifty-nine seconds.

He climbed down into the hub. The warps were glowing like flaming coals. He settled down onto the pad labeled 621-H, and materialized in the storeroom's reception.

The Kyuosa were, for the most part, in the middle of some kind of game, smacking one another around, chittering, chasing each other while the ones not participating looked on and seemed to place bets.

"Come on, we don't have all day," Rollond barked.

Eight minutes, thirty seconds.

They didn't all fit in the hub. 621-H turned yellow when it was overloaded and wouldn't allow anyone else to come forth. Rollond motioned towards 064-C, and they went, often giving him dirty glances.

Five minutes, fifteen seconds.

He stayed behind, making sure the Kyusoa passed through the warp. When he finally went through, his stomach churned, and hot, aching, stabbing pains rattled his ribs.

The warehouse's surface defenses were up. Thick tautonium plates, smooth and seamless, were erected and snug against the main entrance.

Four minutes, forty-six seconds.

There was no way. Even with Neaatl's acidic sputum, they wouldn't get through in time.

"Ashenzsi," Rollond called out for him. "Ashenzsi?" Rollond could have sworn he saw Ashenzsi come with the rest of the Kyusoa. Then again, they all still looked very much alike.

Three minutes.

The discomfort around his ribcage dropped into his stomach as he backtracked through the hub. Curse this lagging descent! The warps were glowing yellow, and then turning cool blue; they were shutting off. He touched 621-H, and emerged back in the storeroom.

"Ashenzsi!?" He was getting anxious. Then, finally, there he was, sprawled on the floor. "Sweet son of a beer-basted loaf of bread," Rollond muttered.

The Kyusoa had knocked Ashenzsi unconscious in their little game.

Two minutes, two seconds.

He hefted Ashenzsi over his shoulder. His friend weighed a ton. Still, he ran to the warp.

It turned blue just after he rematerialized. Most of them were off, and 064-C was cooling down.

He hurtled himself at it.

One minute, sixteen seconds.

"Haaah!" He groaned despairingly. Now he understood why they abandoned the warehouse. Was he really this predictable? Nevermind that, what to do? He set Ashenzsi down and beat at the entrance. The steel bowed, but reinforced by tautonium, Rollond's punches were useless.

Thirty seconds.

He stopped. His hands shook. His palms were sweaty — he was sweaty. Already the chamber had turned into an inferno, and the vicious flames hadn't even begun.

Ashenzsi groaned and struggled onto his feet, nearly tumbling over. He reached out and steadied himself with a hand on the door. He couldn't help noticing that Rollond didn't look so good.

Fifteen seconds.

There wasn't any time for words, not even the private sort. Ashenzsi just knew something terrible was going to happen, he felt it clear as day, the same way Rollond did. Except that instead of despairing, something inside of him stirred. Like a disoriented beast awakening in the dank darkness of a cave only to realize that the world was about to end; something feral, strong, instinctual.

Ten seconds.

The final thoughts of Rollond were disregarded whispers, unable to break through into Ashenzsi's mind.

Eight seconds.

Because the only thing Ashenzsi could 'hear' — the only thing that he perceived within himself — was desperation, that quickly gave birth to blazing ire.

Six seconds.

This fury that raged within him took shape, and his skin became like hot resin.

Five seconds.

His eyes were polished stones of solid jade.

Four seconds.

And the first licks of that wild flame broke forth from his eyes.

Three seconds.

He was changing; more and more feral, bestial, farther from what he was used to, what he knew.

Two seconds.

Rollond instinctively ducked and covered his face. What good that would do, he had no idea.

The last thing he heard was a loud crack, and the rush of heat as the red-orange burst and ruptured the floor. It took only a split second.

Death.

Rollond was sure of it, that he was burning inside a twisting, writhing tornado of metal and glass, as his flesh melted away. And somehow, he was still breathing. The wind whipped and screamed all around him, but the air going into his lungs was cool — lukewarm. He dared to open his eyes.

It wasn't a fire at all. The sand had swirled all around them and turned to glass, but the slabs of flooring were like islands sticking out in a whirlpool. He was in the midst of a tornado of something like fire, but it was white and green.

At its eye was Ashenzsi. He didn't want to die, and he made certain that he wasn't about to.

The green fire swirled up into the sky. It darkened, rumbled, and rain started pouring down. And, as the rains fell, Ashenzsi seemed back to normal. Plumes of steam lifted off of him, but the 'animal' of him was gone.

"What...?" Rollond couldn't find the words he wanted to ask.

Ashenzsi flattened back his ears and lowered his belly to the piece of floor he stood on. He shook his head. "I don't know..."

The return to Hydarkua rang with triumph. The Kyusoa brought out their choicest instruments, and set up a bonfire greater than that of the appraisal ceremony. It was time to rejoice; now they had an advantage, and ones young and old, appraised and unsung, all those from the warehouse, had returned.

"Shenzi!" So'yi's tiny voice, although welcome, didn't stop him like it normally did. He tucked his tail between his legs and plodded on all-fours into the home he shared with Rollond.

So'yi stopped outside the entrance curtain. Rollond was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest, one leg crossed over the other, head bowed, lost amid thought. She hopped to him and tugged on his pants leg.

"Hm?" He looked down at her.

"What is wrong?" she asked. "Why do both of you have shaken rou'us?"

Rollond gradually arched his brows, then shook his head. His lips parted to speak, but Tschorra's voice filled the air:

"His Aelyth is coming to life within him," Tschorra said. "You feel it too, don't you, Rollond." He sat down on his hinds, splayed his fingers over his chest and bowed his head. "Tsche au."

It was the first time Tschorra acknowledged Rollond by name.

"I don't understand what you mean," Rollond said.

"It is normal for his kind. There exists a day of maturing, where we each come to know what it is that we are; some of us change, some have great power of Aelyth, some wind up with neither, and there are those, still, who have both."

Rollond shook his head. "This isn't my problem."

"If, truly, you are his Brother, he needs you."

Rollond grunted, and ducked into the home. He didn't want any more of this wise-cracked... And as he started for his bed, he watched Ashenzsi shiver, curled in the corner, hugging himself.

He was hesitant, but Rollond eventually knocked on the feral door. 'You... alright?'

Fear. He sensed Ashenzsi's fear and confusion. It was thick as a forest of thorny bushes and somewhere in the middle of it all was Ashenzsi, afraid to take one step farther.

'I had hoped to know my roots,' he said. 'To know what I came from, to know what it is that I'll be. Every time it happens, it scares me. It's like there's this monster of great, terrible power in me, and when it wakes, it surges to the surface, tearing through me — I can't stop it, I can't; I don't even know what it is. If it is me, or if I will become it.'

'Well that sounds like puberty.' Rollond didn't know how to be helpful with these types of things.

'Mmhn...' Ashenzsi didn't find him funny.

'Look, if I can help you find your people, I will. Do you have any idea where you're from?'

'They used to wrap me in this, said it was from my mother.'

Rolland struggled to visualize what Ashenzsi was showing him. It was a cloth — a cloak and hood, sleeved, long, old. It was crimson and black, but on the back of it, there was a gold and copper symbol. The mark was extremely familiar, the same one he had seen since as far back as he could remember. That mark was everywhere, and yet, designated a specific place.

It was the mark of Nexus, the composite symbol of the forty-four tribes, with the insignia of the forty-fifth as the center, what unified them all.

How odd.

'I see,' Rollond said.

'You can help?'

'It's something I'll have to look into. Hang in here with me for now.'

'You promise me?'

'When have I let you down?' Rollond asked rhetorically.'In fact, I'll take you with me. Let me finish my word with these people, and as soon as I have Fylus's head on a stick, I'm dragging you back to my place, where you're doomed to find out something related to what you've shown me.'

Ashenzsi grinned.

'And if that ain't enough to spank your monkey to, I'll do you one more.' Rollond sprawled on his bed and watched Ashenzsi. He settled down, as So'yi climbed onto his side, and turned around in circles, patting him. Then she laid down, and curled up like a sharr. Eventually he rolled onto his back, and she had to do her pat-down ritual on his stomach.

As for the man, sleep didn't visit Rollond at all. He was lax, but wide awake. The image of that coat bugged him. What did it mean? Ashenzsi was an Alekzandryan, sure. But the symbol on the back of the coat implied that Ashenzsi's mother had something to do with the Neisam. The Neisam, who was his mother — Rollond's mother, Mylisto.

But Ashenzsi didn't look anything like her. Neither did Rollond, as far as that goes. Maybe he was adopted — maybe they both were adopted. Or, possibly, Rollond was adopted and Ashenzsi, really, was what his mother wanted to cover up, because, you know, she was having sex with Anileon, and Anileon wasn't human to begin with! That — was a disturbing mental image Rollond didn't appreciate. He could fathom his mother naked, it wasn't that difficult. Besides, first thing everyone comes into contact with is a woman's vagina —

Eugh! What was he thinking!?

... Do Tyihas have vaginas? Like the kind Women have?

By dawn, he determined, that all he wanted to see, was a tyiha's sex.

It was too late for sleep. He rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling, but the dreadlocked mane of one of the Elder Kojas caught his attention.

He strode past Rollond to Ashenzsi, and whacked him on the head with a wet rag. Ashenzsi jolted upright, and the old koja motioned for him to come.

"Wait, what's going on?" Rollond sat up. "Where are you taking him —"

The koja's raised hand hushed Rollond. "This does not concern you," he said, as he held the curtain open, waiting expectantly for Ashenzsi to go through.

Ashenzsi furrowed his brows and gave Rollond an uncertain, insecure glance. Had he done something wrong?

"Don't worry, you'll be fine," Rollond said. "You know how to find me."

What reassurance the man's words offered him was very little in comparison to how he felt. The cool breeze was still flowing over the plateau inside the mountain, and there wasn't a soul to be seen. They took Ashenzsi into the lowest mesa; deep into the belly of the plateau, where the only light that pushed back the dark was from a torch.

The air was thick, and difficult to breathe the farther down they went. Until, finally, where water trickled down in several places, there stood Tshoka, and with her were several Ouraihanns and Uutaijens — the Sealed-girls and the Seedling-boys. These with Tshoka were grown, as complete as full adults can be. But by their titles, they were acknowledged as being no different than adolescents.

"I hear reports of you," Tschoka said. "The great Aelyth that broke the desert and shred the sky, it was you?"

He nodded. "Tsche."

"Then you know why you are here."

He didn't offer a response. He just stared at his feet, his ears splayed back. It wasn't a joyous occasion, even though he had heard gayly stories of what happens to certain ones chosen, because he wasn't sure of himself. Prior to now, he always thought he'd settle in a Commune and come to be worthy of a great owner.

Finally, he shook his head.

"Such potency does not belong in the hands of a single owner. So we have convened," Tshoka said, as she circled around him, "to remove the obligation to yourself so as to become Priceless." She stopped in front of him and stared into his downcast, absent gaze.

There were two ways to view her statement. He could take it as an honor, or for what it really was.

His skin crawled.

The morning sun was just passing out of dawn when he reemerged from the mesa. He went home. Rollond was out, probably tackling another warehouse. Ashenzsi fell onto the bed. He closed his eyes and wouldn't rouse, even when So'yi ran circles around him, squealing, flailing her arms in the air.

She hopped on top of his head and nip-tugged his ear. She wanted to play with him. But when she couldn't get him to budge, she sat on the back of his neck.

"Su'u batzuh," he murmured. "Forgive me, So'yi, I do not feel well." He pulled the robe over his head, to hide his watery eyes. She curled up beside him, and he quietly sobbed.

"Tsche au?" Tschorra said, poking his head into Ashenzsi and Rollond's home. When he saw Ashenzsi, he trotted onto the bed and sat down. "The first time is always the worst."

"What knowledge do you have?" Ashenzsi seethed.

"A lot." Tschorra scratched his chest. "I used to be an Uutaijen." He glanced sideways at Ashenzsi, who lifted his head and perked his ears. "The fact that you are distraught over it shows that you will not be wasted."

"Wasted?" Ashenzsi sat up. "They gather together to rip my hopes from my heart, and you tell me that my pain because of this proves that I will not be 'wasted'? I didn't ask to be a worthless boy all my life!"

Tschorra bobbed his head. "It is understandable," he said, calmly, unaffected by Ashenzsi's outburst. "But look outside among the Kojas, and tell me that you do not see: they shudder in ecstasy over having been bought, but beyond that remain just as they were at the beginning of their lives. They grow old and complacent, fattened with their days; going nowhere; asking noting; discovering nothing; learning no new things; hearing no new legends to take with them on their travels. You look and see, so as to tell me that is the life you want."

Ashenzsi scoffed.

"We have not stolen your dreams, or broken your heart. Only your virginity," he said, "so that no one can mistakenly mark you less than what you really are worth. Now stop being sorry for yourself and come."

Ashenzsi narrowed his eyes, as he crawled off the bed, and kept his body low to the ground. It was an abject moment, as Ashenzsi bared his teeth. "No," he snarled, "get out." The air crackled and popped. Tendrils of Ashenzsi's stringy mane rose, as his eyes smoldered.

Tschorra arched his brows. The air had the distinct scent of wet dirt and storms. The walls were precipitating. And as Ashenzsi growled, the rolling, tumultuous sound of thunder reverberated off of the makeshift mud-brick-and-clay-mortar walls.

Ashenzsi gagged, and long, red-purple sparks flashed out of his mouth. He spewed them onto the floor, and these carved rills into the stone; fiercely hot lines of magma, that turned darkened, dirty crystal as they cooled.

Tschorra backed out. Ashenzsi crept towards him, hissing lowly, maliciously. He arched his back, and his body stretched — even his neck, as his face went from a man-like shape to something with a long snout and a maw stocked with monolithic, serrated fangs. The hands he crept on became paws bearing dense, heavy, hook-like talons on the ends of long, powerful fingers.

"Shenzsi!" So'yi screamed. She jumped in front of his growing, changing body and stretched out her hands. She didn't know what to say. She kept trying to get his attention; she kept trying to entrap him through his eyes.

But when those lustrous jade spheres finally settled into her snowy gaze, he opened his other eyes. Turns out, in this state, he had six of them: the first were embedded in green flame, the third pair had brash arcs of white-cyan lightning racing around them, and the middle pair dribbled aelyth like water from a hot spring.

She realized, as he lurched forth over her and through the wall, that it was going to take three So'yis and an army to settle this beast the way she wanted to.

Meanwhile, the day was fine where Rollond was; hot, and dry, with a forgiving, cool breeze. There were a few of them with Begomzsi and Injolea who loped along on all fours, almost in tandem with Rollond's steady gait. It was faster to ride, but Rollond couldn't be bothered with mounting them.

His thoughts gravitated towards the feral door. He ambled towards it, but when he knocked, he received no answer. There was something violently writhing on the other side. He pressed his bare palm against what was normally glass to find it bitter as frigid ice. Ashenzsi's aelyth surged through Rollond, and from the very eyes of his companion he saw the furious visage of gape-jawed, winged beast with multi-colored feathers. It was gigantic, compared to the Sandwyrks and other Kyusoakin.

Rollond didn't realize that he stopped until Injolea tail-thwacked him.

"Something wrong?" Injolea asked.

"Yes," Rollond said. "We need to get back to Hydarkua."

"Why? It will be there when we return."

In the west, the mountains were smoldering. The Kyusoakin hadn't seen the billowing smoky clouds collected over the staggering plumes, but as Rollond grabbed Injolea's shoulder and swung himself onto the kyusoa's back, grave sense of condemnation settled onto him.

Flames writhed upon the inner plateau by the time Rollond and his company returned. The air was thick and smoggy, and it seemed that the flat top was abandoned, for the most part. The Mesas had the worst of it. Tschorra, the great tyrannosaurus-like beast beat his feathery wings, desperately fanning the smoke away. But he could barely see through the smog, much less keep up with Ashenzsi, who, in the matter of a fraction of fractions of a second, ensnared Tchorra.

The two beasts crashed on the mesas. Ashenzsi hurtled Tschorra, who was tightly wrapped in his coils, to the ground, repeatedly thrashing him until the surface broke into rubble. Then he loosed from around Tschorra, and from his second, gaped maw, the lower one, he spewed intensely hot aelyth, like smelt metal.

Tschorra slammed his tail into Ashenzsi's neck, hooked it around and wrenched him into the gravel. He narrowly escaped being cooked as the molten aelyth splattered not far from him, and from the first maw, the top one, Ashenzsi shrieked. Tschorra limped back. And as soon as he was on his feet, Ashenzsi rolled onto his belly and hissed, crouched to the plateau's surface.

Tschorra winced; it was no good.

"Hey!" Rollond shouted and waved his arms. Ashenzsi lurched for him, maws agape, tongues eager to snatch Rollond alive, but Tschorra swept him up.

He set Rollond on a ledge in the interior mountain wall, and looked at him as if asking what he wanted. In this state it was impossible for Tschorra to speak.

There was no point to asking what happened; Ashenzsi happened, Rollond gathered that much. How can he be stopped? Rollond didn't have the faintest idea. He balled his fists as he thought. Then again, what else was he good at? "Can you get me over top of him?" he asked.

Tschorra lowered his head and shrugged his shoulders. Then grumbled and cocked his head to one side.

"I want to put my fist to his skull," Rollond said, pounding his fist into his palm. "No idea if it'll work, but if I can knock the sense out of him, it might buy enough time to figure how to get some into him."

Tschorra huffed. He lowered himself off the side of the mountain wall and motioned for Rollond to hop on. It was as good an idea as chasing down yesterday's lunch in the belly of a gator.

Rollond's eyes burned. He clenched the thick, braided tendrils of Tschorra's mane, as Tschorra ascended to the skylight, where they were easy to see. They waited, and sure enough, Ashenzsi darted out of the thick bluish-red-black smoke.

Ashenzsi was bent on tearing out Tschorra's throat when Rollond leaped off of Tschorra's neck. The distance seemed short between the large beasts, but the fall was longer than he anticipated. And like second nature Rollond turned over in midair so that his back was facing his target. He took a sole gulp of air, then twisted around and nailed the full force of his fists into Ashenzsi's crown, dead between his third pair of eyes. Ashenzsi went limp. Rollond gripped his mane as Ashenzsi dropped — his body screaming through the air like a whip — and crashed on the plateau.

When the smoke finally cleared, Tschorra, in his more humanesque form, was bounding over the rocky surface to the place where they landed. It was a winding, serpentine gorge, with the details of Ashenzsi's six limbs and head. Somewhere around where his stomach would be, Rollond was sitting cross-legged, rubbing his chin as he contemplated an unconscious Ashenzsi.

"Rollond," Tschorra called out to him. He half-hopped but mostly slid down into the gorge. When he came near, he lowered himself, flattening his belly to the ground. "Thank you," Tschorra said.

"Mh," Rollond grunted. "I need to know what's going to happen here."

Tschorra furrowed his brows and shook his head. "I doubt Tschoka will refurnish the plateau; it will take generations for us to rebuild. As for this you have done, I will tell her. She will most likely want to give you something in exchange for all you have done for us thus far."

Rollond slowly nodded. "There is one thing, now that you mention it."

Tschorra arched his brows.

"I want a Price."

"No, you don't," Tschorra said.

"What makes you think I don't?" Rollond gave Tschorra a narrow-eyed, menacing glance. His gesture didn't mean anything to Tschorra.

"Because if you do this, you cannot give yourself to a woman afterwards. Realize, please, that our marked virgins are bought by Tyihas and only by Tyihas. If you were to give your virginity to a woman, and then a Tyiha seeks you out for purchase, by our law, she is obligated to remove your organs."

The idea didn't bother Rollond. "So I want a Price."

"It does not make you one of us, if that's really what you want."

"No." Rollond shook his head. "I don't have aspirations of being like a Kyusoa."

"Mm." Tschorra lifted and scratched his chest. "Bring us the Head of those whom entrap us in the desert, and I will personally see to your worth."

"Sounds fair." Rollond motioned towards Ashenzsi. "Now help me with him."

There was a valley on the other side of the mountains, towards the north. It had a short river that flowed from the hot springs in the mountain, and bled into the ocean. There, Tschorra dropped Rollond and Ashenzsi off.

"And one more thing," Rollond said. "The girl that was with us, So'yi, tell her we'll be there for her soon. And no matter what, she isn't to come looking for us; Ashenzsi and I need some time alone. I'm sure she'll understand."

Tschorra bowed his head. He exchanged parting gestures with Rollond, and went south. The Commune must have relocated somewhere along the coast.

Ashenzsi was still unconscious. Rollond found a boulder near the river, not far from Ashenzsi, and sat on it. He concentrated on his mental, feral door, and he saw some kyusoakin on the other side, and Ashenzsi was whining with his ears back. Rollond watched, as they insisted Ashenzsi undergo it.

When she first embraced him, he withstood his instinct to flee, even though her licks made his skin slimy. She pulled him down on top of her, and wrapped her legs around the narrow of his waist, exposing herself wherein, he knew, he was to dive in and enjoy himself.

He couldn't.

Ashenzsi's tether shrank back into him until it seemed that his sheath swallowed the bulb-head of his cock; the little bit of him that was the normal protuberance between his legs.

Then she rolled on top of him. She had nine, fourteen inch tendrils like the arms of a squid. These were sensitive like a woman's nib, and as mobile, dexterous and precise as a human's arm and hand. With these she bore into the foreskin that hid his defiant organ, and, wrapping all nine of them around his head and the first few inches of his tentacular shaft, pulled him out and into her. At that point they held him down, because he was kicking and trying to throw her off. He'd have torn out her throat in that instant, or else rive her apart.

He didn't want to give up his aspirations; they forced him to. And for why? Because he was a Kyusoa of a particular kind. A rare being, the only one, save for his mother. Yet no one knew what happened to her, except that she handed him away and then vanished off the face of the planet.

That's why, instead of perfecting his skill at a trade, or craft, he spent his years scouring as much of Dyjian as he could for answers. And lamenting that he found none.

Ashenzsi's memory left a bitter taste in Rollond's mouth.

'Th-thu'uryi,' Ashenzsi stammered. 'You truly are a conquering one.' Groggily, he rolled onto his stomach and laid, his ears back, his expression remorseful.

Rollond snorted. 'Next time you want to throw a wrench in my plans...'

'I am sorry, su'u batzuh. Just — when he came to me, saying that this was a good thing, that it would benefit me, and I wouldn't be 'wasted,' I —'

'I know,' Rollond said. He scowled. 'I saw everything. Still, that does NOT give you the right to jeopardize all that I have worked for.'

'I thought we were a team?'

Rollond sighed. 'We are. That's why we're here, just you and me. We're going to get real close real quick, because we're going to figure this 'monster' out. And every time you go buck-freig wild on me, I'm going to rattle your brain good and hard.'

Ashenzsi didn't seem fond of Rollond's terms; he didn't like the idea of being punched in the head. What choice did he really have? There had to be something to keep him in line.

'Bring it out,' Rollond said.

"I don't want to do this alone." Ashenzsi shook his head and started to crawl away.

"What do you mean 'alone'? I'm right here."

"You don't understand. When it happens there's no one with me, nothing for me to hold on to. Inside, I am abandoned."

"Shenzsi, Shenzsi," Rollond said, running his fingers through his dirty-white hair. "There's a 'door,' all you have to do is 'knock' —" Or did that have something to do with it? A door was simply a passage through a wall — an entrance, an exit. Everyone knows that. But the fact that there was a 'feral door' implies that there must also be some kind of wall.

He was quick to 'visit' Ashenzsi, but save for the one time, when had Rollond ever let him in? That door existed because Rollond put it there. Then what was he afraid of? That Ashenzsi would find out his secret? And what could that possibly be? Rollond didn't know; he barely understood himself.

He focused on the feral door.

When the door melted away and the walls evaporated, there they were. There was no distinction between the man and the kyusoa; they simply saw one another as they were: physical entities with a unique bond.

The beast crept upon Ashenzsi's features, until his body was long from snout to tail-tip, and his hands were massive, all six of them. He unfolded his six wings and lowered his forebody, remembering those fists from before. From one maw he growled, and from the second he panted.

Ashenzsi didn't need words to know what Rollond was planning. Ashenzsi snorted and eagerly kneaded the sand as the man gripped his mane and climbed onto him just before his shoulders. The second Rollond's weight settled, Ashenzsi tore towards the far northwestern tip of the continent, and nearly flung Rollond into the sand.

The experience wasn't like that of riding a Sandwyrk. Every brawny contraction of Ashenzsi's muscles surged through Rollond as if he were bounding along the coast. Before the bare ecstasy of the wind whipping about them both could begin to subside, they were within the perimeter.

It was a secret that Nexus was ill-informed of. Somehow the far northwestern tip of the continent went undomained, and kittycorner to the tip, just off the coast, was an unsuspicious island. The island had always been there, its sole ornament being a pillar of quartz. No one gave it so much as a second thought, until a warehouse-and-a-half ago.

Of course, they were charging across pristine white sands, when there was a flash and they both froze: Ashenzsi in mid-gait, and Rollond just as he was. Even with open eyes, in a state of absolute inertia, the subject doesn't see. Nor does one think or feel; the living soul is rendered as though dead until restored.

They had taken particular care to bind Rollond while he was under stasis, securing his arms to his body, and locking his hands with his palms open and fingers splayed. They may as well have put him in a tautonium coffin, as the bands of metal around his body were doubled over from his shoulders down to his knees enough times that he couldn't budge. They also spread and barred his knees, keeping him knelt; this in addition to being anchored down with chains.

Necessary precautions around the Prince, because they were more than aware of his vehement strength.

After these measures were taken and checked several times, they rejuvenated him.

Rollond gasped, and rolled his head over his shoulders. The restitution process was more irritating than that of warping. At least the latter just made him slightly nauseous, whereas restitution left him entirely numb, jittery, and for some unknown reason, famished.

Twelve men, rifles at the fore, stood on standby in front of him. Likely there were twelve more behind him, and six to his left and right that he couldn't see. All in all, there were forty-eight men on guard in the room with him.

"O my Prince,~" Fylus said. He stepped around to Rollond's front and patted his cheek. "Pleasure to have you here! I hope you found your reception most... accommodating."

"For the most part," Rollond said. "Though, I was expecting a parade and a feast. You know, you being a master trapper, what with all them warehouses, I thought we'd celebrate the ones I blew up."

"You despicable..." Fylus seethed. "The whole reason I havn't lopped off your head is you're of particular value to me. That dark-skinned esnipengesschn, Mylisto, is looking for you. And thanks to your intrusive vlawdtskemmung interruptions, I've had to come up with a new plan —"

"I'm all ears to your genius babble, Fylus, but I want you to know that I'm still willing to strike a deal with you. You cut this heiknameig out, turn yourself in and let me go, and I'll let you off with a hundred and forty years; the public doesn't even have to know all the details, we'll just say you had a change of heart."

"How dare you talk to me with your cock in your mouth!" Fylus bellowed. "You think I have gone through all this, and put up with these amkanfheik Hedonites just to turn myself in!?"

"Tell you what," Rollond said, "I'll give you until I bust out of these bonds to decide."

"Swankard to the very end."

"You have no idea."

Fylus laughed, and stepped out.

Rollond looked around wearily, and glanced up at one of the guards. He sighed, since when can anyone tell what a hedonite's expression is under those infernal masks? He closed his eyes, and relaxed.

The place in his mind where the door once was had become an open space. The horizon was dark as during twilight, and there was no ground, just water. It appeared deep, because as far as Rollond could tell, there was no bottom, just deepening blackness. And yet, he stood in it as if it was shallow. It was a tranquil place, lulling his senses, his adventurous spirit, his everything, until he stood still. He could go on forever in any direction and it would be as if he had gone no where. A cold, unsettling shiver trickled up his arms.

The shallow water rippled at his ankles. A shadow passed over him, and so the sound of wings slashing through the air. Water gushed up in torrents when the beast touched down. He was a proud, yet elegant thing. And as Rollond looked through his eyes, he shared Ashenzsi's sense of wonder.

Ashenzsi circled around on a small man-made island. The sound of sea birds overhead was calming, even though the birds were mere projections in the cylindrical wall. He settled into the water, and with a few swishes of his tail, ducked curiously under. Somewhere he found a hole in the floor. The gate opened, and Ashenzsi hesitantly passed through.

There was a common, cavernous habitat, since, as he swam about, he discovered many holes that were likewise gated. Yet he seemed to be the sole occupant. That is, until he went to the bottom.

He had difficulty sensing what its gender was, but down at the bottom, in an ice-covered, softly radiant bubble of condensed oxygen, he made out a cream-ish colored entity, with long, hot pink stripes down its back. Its mane floated like seaweed, and it bared a striking resemblance to him.

Placing his paws on the ice, he pressed his nose to the sphere, and spoke. His words were not as formed and eloquent as his usual speech, but he managed a long, melodic, whale-like cry. And, gradually, the creature within the bubble opened its eyes. Its muscles spasmed, and its eyelids fluttered. He sung to it again, but the beast wasn't responsive, until, finally, its convulsions stopped, and it pressed its paw over his.

'Have I been away this long...?' It moaned to him.

'Away?' he asked. 'From what?'

It pushed its head through the top of the ice. Oxygen from the floor grating bubbled up with the great, gray-white blobs. It was a she; it had breasts — not only that but the pleasant insignia of the opposite sex diffused through the water. She was the strangest thing to him, because he'd swear he'd known this scent before.

She surfaced on the island, and motioned with a swish of her tail for him to come up with her, but he stayed back in the water.

'Do I know you?' Ashenzsi asked.

'Do you?'

'My body... believes I do.' He splayed his ears and kneaded wet sand. 'Who are you?'

'Tytnakea,' she said. Her name wasn't at all familiar to him, she could tell, because he furrowed his brows and lowered his snout, scratching through his mane. 'Maybe you're asking all the right things, but form your questions wrong.'

Ashenzsi snorted.

'We are similar, but you aren't like me; it is impossible for you to be. Is that why you stay back, because you don't know if I am a sister to you? — I am not your sister.'

'You are my cousin?'

'Why do you wish it so?' Tytnakea paused. The moment Ashenzsi opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off: 'You want to take me and prove them wrong.'

'Then you will come with me?'

'I will not come with you.'

He growled, fell on his side and thrashed in the sand. 'Why not!?'

And yet, she hesitated to answer. Her legs trembled as she lowered onto the sand, and her head came down as though her neck were too unstable to hold it up any longer. 'Because I can't come with you...' Her ears limply fell back. 'I regret nothing I have done; I wish only that we had more time.'

Inexplicable sorrow; why did he regret coming out here? Why did he feel he should have left her alone? Was it because, as he considered his feelings and her words, her flesh was peeling like burning rice paper? Floating into the air and disappearing, little by little, flake by flake; that she seemed to accept, with whole-hearted melancholy, that they had just met, and already, their parting must follow.

'I love you, Ashenzsi.'

His ears perked. She knew his name?

'So long as you live, never forget that —' Her body burst into flames.

Ashenzsi shielded his eyes from the violent pyre, its light more intense than the sun at dawn. Only, mere seconds later when the fire subsided, he noticed her dark, cold, metallic bones; how her remains resembled burning coals. He picked up one, a tooth or a talon, he wasn't sure, and tied it into his mane.

Tytnakea's violent eruption did not go unnoticed, especially in the Executive Chambers, as her death was relayed over video feeds.

When he saw it, Fylus gritted his teeth, peering into the holo display. She finally died, just as he'd gotten one that was remotely like her. He rolled his stylus between his thumb and index finger. "Was he sterilized!?" he barked at one of his subordinates.

They flicked through the light. "Sir, yes."

"No he wasn't!" He swatted one of them upside the back of their head. The rest of them stopped as their comrade's skull cracked on the corner of the console. "HOW ELSE does he transmit some spontaneous combustion DISEASE!? SOMEONE," Fylus screamed, "IS NOT DOING THEIR JOB RIGHT!" He kicked the trash chute, bit his lip, and limped towards his station. "If you keep being this INCOMPETENT, not only am I going to fire all of you, I'm going to FEED YOU THROUGH A MEAT MINCER — ONE — BODY PART — AT — A — TIME! NOW BACK TO WORK!"

They exchanged glances, and resumed fingering through the holograms.

Fylus settled into his seat. "How am I ever going to take my own country with these..." he muttered to himself, pulling up a transmission of Rollond. He was sound asleep, head tilted back, mouth open. He made Fylus sick to his stomach. How was it possible? The Prince knows he's in immediate danger, and yet he just zonks out, like that, like his circumstances are of no consequence to him.

You know what? Screw ransoming.

Fylus thumbed up the feeding schedule. The Female Beast ate very little. She had gotten to the point where she had to be attached to a gastrointestinal bypass and fed mush like an invalid. But this freshly acquired male was far heartier, and likely had a great appetite.

He called the chief of the guard detail with Rollond. "Put him in the terrarium," he hissed, delightedly.

He watched:

The entire time they handled Rollond, loading him onto a platform to be warped, how he was jostled and jolted, not once did the white-haired man stir. In fact he slept through it all, even the warp, and when he reemerged on the central island in the terrarium, still chained up like he was, he still didn't bother to flinch. Not even to curiously open his eyes.

Fylus was furious — how!? How does he do it!? How could someone — anyone — get under this man's skin!?

Never mind that.

He sunk into his seat, slouching, legs spread wide, his head rested in his fingertips, as he awaited that one juicy moment. That one where the Prince's head was torn off and, in a single swallow, vanished into the mouth of the beast. And the rest of Rollond —

Was loosed from his bindings. Fylus didn't believe it.

The Beast, Ashenzsi, chilled the metal until it shrank, constricting Rollond, only to blast it with intense heat. And just like that, the metal straps, the chains, the harnesses, all of it, peeled off like... like glue on wax paper.

This — this is absurd. This is definitely —

When those with him saw Rollond free, and that the beast aided him, they unanimously turned to Fylus, stood, threw down their badges, and walked out. One of them tapped into the intercom:

"We've had enough; it's time to quit." Afterward, this one turned to Fylus and bowed at the waist. "It truly has been a pleasure serving you, you titanic toddler. And I, on the behalf of all of us Hedonites here, and our loved ones in He'Don, wish you the best with your impossible goals." Then he opened the terrarium doors.

"Y-you..." Fylus was almost speechless. "You can't quit me. You can't leave me! You can't! Not one of you! I have you all on contract, and so long as your names are signed to those documents, I OWN you! ALL OF YOU! GET BACK TO YOUR STATIONS —"

The last man walked out; Fylus was alone.

He hurried over to the station that monitored the terrarium. Rollond and the beast were suspicious at first, but once they were on the other side, a second feed revealed that even the low-men, the guards and the janitors, were throwing down their guns and powering off the defense and cleaning drones, disabling the turrets. In fact, they were applauding Rollond, shaking his hand and reaching out to pet the beast.

Something wet trickled down Fylus's thighs. This wasn't happening! This wasn't happening! This — the more he tried to convince himself, the wetter he got.

"This is what you call Fate, is it not?" An abysmally deep, unforgivably cold, raspy voice made Fylus's hearts stop.

He turned around, slowly, and his eyes burned as he regarded two, floating, disembodied disks of polished gold; what were irises with no proper eyes, or body. It was like a man, rising up from the floor, black-silver, like coagulated human blood.

"Didn't I tell you, that if you let that one creature go, you would have succeeded?"

Fylus swallowed hard. "M-mokallai?"

The blood-man chuckled. "It really is a shame, Fylus. I could have made you very, very mighty. If only you would have obeyed me." He had a slow, lurching gait, because his 'feet' would meld onto the floor and stick, being made of old blood. The sound of his every step was nauseating as it peeled up, leaving gelatinous wads behind.

Fylus braced against the console, his face flushed pale green, looking as though he wanted to vomit his intestines out while simultaneously slitting his throat. "What do you want from me!?"

Mokallai got right in Fylus's face. He gripped the console, trapping Fylus between his arms. The blood that made his head hardened and parted, forming something like scab-lips. "To savor this moment." He grinned, as an arm formed from his back, and something like a human hand plopped on Fylus's head. Fylus swallowed, as Mokallai started to gradually turn him towards the video feeds.

Rollond and the beast were just outside.

"And to know that I,~" Mokallai crooned, "will be back for you, Fffylussss.~"

The doors slid open.

They charged in. Rollond's fists were ready to punch Fylus apart — and — well... no.

There was no one in the room. Ashenzsi lowered his head, sniffed, snorted, and nosed Rollond's side, grumbling at him. Rollond patted his head, a thoughtlessly automatic human gesture, and started in. His steps were quiet, as he suspected that Fylus lurked around the corner of something, waiting, to jump Rollond.

As he came to the far end of the console, there, in the corner of the room, was a pile of chairs. Rollond knelt down and took a good, close look:

Fylus was in the fetal position, clutching his head, shuddering. He whimpered, sniffed, then whined and muttered something in a shrill squeak.

And Rollond couldn't make sense of it. He scratched his head. Where was the fight he expected? All that animosity before, and but now... He grunted and picked through the chairs. He put his hand on Fylus's shoulder.

Fylus jolted and shrieked. Then with wide eyes, and wild tremors, he focused on Rollond's rugged chin. "Y-you... You!" He clenched Rollond's arm. "Y-you have to help me, you must help me, you must! Please! Make him go away from me!"

Rollond quirked his brow. He glanced around, certain that no one was here except for he, Fylus, and Ashenzsi by the exit. Maybe he meant Ashenzsi? "Who?" Rollond asked.

"Th-the — he..." Fylus couldn't find the words to explain it. What was Mokallai anyway? A hallucination that took on the form of blood, with grand, golden irises that instilled awe and terror and greed with selfishness in all who regarded them for too long? Or was Mokallai more than that?

Fylus pointed; Rollond looked but he didn't see anything. No, he didn't see anything — not the looming figure with the burning eyes of gold, like a hot, virgin sun, flaring high in the sky. Mokallai, with that wretched, infernal grin, and low, malignant chuckle, what resounded in Fylus's mind again and again.

Rollond shook his head. He grabbed Fylus and dragged him, kicking and screaming, out from the chairs. He stripped off some metal from the console and bent it around Fylus's wrists. Then he loaded the babbling, twitchy man onto Ashenzsi's back, and settled behind him, to make sure Fylus didn't fall off.

It wasn't long before they were back on the surface of the lonely, forsaken island. Ashenzsi slipped into the water, and they started south. Sometime later, Fylus stopped mumbling. He slumped forward, exhausted.

From the island, it was a whole day's drift down the coast. They weren't expecting much, since Hydarkua was furnished with simplistic mud-mortar and sand-walled homes. But the waves of the sea broke into this village, this sea-side Commune. Its piers were made to float on the waves and rise with the tides, and they floated between the pointed peaks of shells; gigantic, gnarly, shells.

There were also huts on the coast; calcified structures that bared no resemblance to the shells. Literally, they were bubble-like mounds, with no obvious way in or out.

"Tsche au!" A kyusoa waved to them. A koja, since his head was sticking out. "Anapiakoa welcomes you." He bowed at the waist as Rollond hopped down from Ashenzsi. "This one is Sihka, and you must be Rollond, tsche. Tschorra has said many good things about you; there is no Uunan whom Hydarkua speaks of with worth. You must be different."

Rollond shrugged. "Just doing my thing." He watched Tschorra pass him and stride over to Ashenzsi. He pulled Fylus down, and studied his face.

Fylus's eyes were distant. He looked at Tschorra, but didn't 'see' him. He huffed, puffed, and passed out.

Tschorra scratched his chest. "He has seen something," he pronounced. "He still is seeing this 'something'." He turned to Rollond. "You Uunani have a sense of justice, do you? Would it be worth punishing him if he is unable to keep his mind?"

"Look, cognizant or no, there's a price to pay. If one of your kind was out of their wits, and they came after your Tsamiiq, would you let them go?"

Tschorra hesitated to answer.

"No, you wouldn't," Rollond answered for him. "I need a place to hold him until I leave homeward."

Sihka bobbed his head. "We can cage him. This way."

They stripped Fylus to his bare skin, and barred him off in a cave of bamboo. He didn't try to escape. He merely stared wistfully at the world beyond the poles; no one could tell what was passing through his seemingly absent mind.

Sometimes, Rollond wondered what happened to his enemy. There were nights he sat outside Fylus's cage, and looked on perplexed at how, when they gave him charred fish and brought him fresh water, he ate, then a number of hours later, he would disappear to do 'business', only to reemerge as wanton and wasted as before.

Rollond had no time for pity. His human build made him near useless in a society where everything is given on an individual level according to one's productivity. There wasn't much he could do. He spent most of his daylight hours on the coast, watching as, when the tides were lowest, the kojas darted along the coastal cliff and the reef walls. They anchored themselves with their feet, and snatched fat, hearty polyps stuffed with juicy, half digested remains. When the baskets were full, the koja cinched it and hurled it upwards, where, with a deft and precise tether, another male would catch it and hurl it onwards.

It was a disorienting thing to watch, how the Kyusoakin males would snatch a one hundred fifty pound basket out of the air with only their penis, among other things they used their sex organ for — besides sex.

They didn't just work from dawn to dusk. When the one fishing in the deep had enough, he went to the shore, where the children played, and the singers, dancers, musicians, and performers of the Commune rehearsed. He'd find his mate, snatch and roll around with her, having a quick tether or two, depart for a meal, and finally watch over and teach his children.

To Rollond, it was such a free-flowing life. They didn't have wages or complex politics. They did their function when they decided it was good for them to do that day, and once they were done, it was nothing but playfulness.

Rollond settled in his hearts that he didn't want to go home. He slid a bracer off, glove and all. And he despised his ghostly fingers.

"Why do you hate yourself?" So'yi asked.

He nearly jumped out of his skin. "You're some kind of getting-around little thing, aren't you?"

She grinned toothily.

"I don't... hate myself," he said, as he slid his hand back into his bracer.

"That's not what your rou'u says." She waved a finger at him.

He furrowed his brows and gradually popped his knuckles. Always with this 'Rou'u' thing. "It's what I say —"

"Is it?" So'yi stared into his face.

Rollond sighed.

"It's because you don't know. Isn't it what Asaliael told you? For the last time, you are not —"

"Silly little Téyigé, new to their own voices, not knowing when to shut their mouths." A smooth, up-beat voice belonged to an olive-skinned man, with stringy, auburn hair, and a pair of violet-burgundy eyes. As he picked So'yi from the sand, he gently pinched her lips shut and shushed her.

He had four fingers.

"And you are?" Rollond asked, ready to punch the man's head off for touching So'yi.

"Vandlorael — Vandlorr, you see. There are two of us, but only one of me." He chuckled, especially when he saw Rollond's brows arch because it went clear over his head. "It's an inside joke. You must not know Yonathael, do you? Yonaithes? He's my brother, you know." He frowned, and seemed to want to rescind that statement. "My twin brother. Ah, but sadness is a logician's game. He was always a bit of a downer. Rarely smiled, even rarer to crack a laugh — but lovable enough, apparently. Until Tytnakea got pregnant. All went to pot after that."

Rollond shook his head. "I don't know who or what you're talking about!"

Vandlorr nodded. It was a sagely expression, like wisdom dribbled off the tip of his nose and by nodding he could spread it. "Perhaps I'm not the one to explain all that, then. Or, maybe it's not at all important; I'm sure you must wonder, though, exactly who, if not what you are. Mmmbut! Some people just don't care; you sure seem of that sort, too — in fact, what sort are you?"

Rollond furrowed his brows. He couldn't help this odd twinge in his arm, the impulse to punch Vandlorr; what an odd man. He shook his head. "I don't know what you're asking."

"Maybe you're still too young," Vandlorr said, as Tschorra loped over and with a nod of his head, motioned for Rollond to come.

Rollond didn't offer any sort of parting gesture. He stood and followed Tschorra, although Vandlorr's gaze made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He imagined that impeccable, soft grin, like a stain on a white blouse that couldn't be bleached off.

"Before you are appraised," Tschorra stopped and said, "you must be tested."

Rollond rolled his shoulders. "What kind of test?" He expected something he could handle with his bare hands. A man of strength, he didn't seem to comprehend much outside of his confidence. But as Tschorra lead him into the privacy of a particular hut, there were two Uutaijens and Ouraihanns waiting for him.

He sat where they motioned for him to. "Tschorra? Tschorra?" Uncertainty resounded throughout the room as he spoke. "Tell me what's going to happen —"

Before he could finish, one of the Ouraihann's nearly shoved her tongue down his throat. Rolland grimaced, as she rolled her rough, narrow lingua in his mouth. He gagged several times, and snatched her mane, tearing her off of him.

"It is a purity test," Tschorra finally answered.

Rollond wiped spittle from his lips. "That involves me gulping down her tongue?" he hissed.

"Tsche," Tschorra said. "The cheek and the inside of the foreskin bear the same taste. If the latter is different, so we know what you have been up to. Now lower your pants, that we may be finished here."

He gave Tschorra a furrow-browed grimace. They seemed to have no concept of male violation. Rollond sluggishly pulled at the waistline of his pants, constantly, almost bitterly reminding himself that this is what he wanted. He braced as the fattened stub of himself jerked past the hem.

The same one that put her tongue in his mouth grabbed him. He fidgeted where he sat, and twitched in her grip, all the while imagining that her tongue would snake forth once more and envelop him — to see if he tasted a virgin, of course. But the mere thought, as much as he didn't like the idea of sexual trespass, made him want to grab her head and get to it.

She dabbed a satin cloth in water, wrung it in her spare hand, and with part of it folded over the tip of her talon, fingered around the rim of his foreskin. After a short while, she stuck it in her mouth, and sucked on it. Finally, she removed the cloth, and spat. "This one may be marked," she announced.

"W-wond — great," Rollond stammered, his face brighter than a midnight stoplight. He was still twitching, thickening, his cock gradually stretching onward as if the object of its sole existence was just a little farther; just ahead, a teensy bit out of reach. He pulled his pants up.

The night air wasn't filled with the beat of drums, like the appraisal ceremony before. Neither was there a great fire, but an unrelenting silence and persistent dark, as the only light came from a torch in Sikha's hand, and from the reflective eyes of the kyusoakin. They parted as Rollond stepped forth. Some bowed their heads in gratitude as he passed by, others kept reaching out to touch him, only to leap back and chitter.

As he came to the center of the crowd, where they formed a clearing for Tschorra and Sikha, Tschoka cried out: "How time has passed since you first came to us; filthy, wretched Uunaninjyn urchin — this one," she wailed, as she thrust her hand towards Rollond, "that none of us wanted!... to believe in. Perhaps you are the first of many, Rollond, and none should be more deserving than you."

She took the brush from the bowl in Tschorra's hands. How it dribbled with a very special ink, and how his stomach tensed as she drew the first mark, a broad circle a few inches out from his navel. The rest extended from this one, glyphs in Tswaa'ii denoting what, he didn't exactly know, but he was proud to have them. When she finished, he was marked from the front of his hips to mid-chest.

Tschoka put her hands on his cheek, and Rollond bowed. She kissed him on his forehead, the same as if he had been born one of them. "Go with Heart," she whispered.

,

When she stepped back from him a chorus of voices burst into the air. The Kyusoa that had gathered howled into the night, and great fires roared to life. Whatever was good for eating was skewered and thrown in, and they danced, twirling and in rings.

Rollond ate what he could, until the rich, fatty meats settled like lead in his stomach and the sweet fermented fruits made him dizzy. He got up to find a private place to sleep, but fell over, and sprawled listlessly in the sand. He stared wearily at the sky. There were strange lines of color writhing about, and he wanted to say something to Her.

He went right to sleep.

From Anapiakoa, the trip to Alekzandrya was a long one. He didn't think it wise to ride Ashenzsi there, because Nexus would have Ashenzsi obliterated should they find him in his beast-y form.

So'yi perched on Ashenzsi's shoulders and together, dragging Fylus along, they and Rollond started for the southern end of the mountains on foot.
Destiny.

Luorvas, the 8th day in the month of Melstaafh, 7╥453.

Reminiscence, just as much as it was sour, and embittered his stomach, was also sweet and sought after. How did he come to be? Since his first memory down to this moment, Yonathael was unable to recall his mother who brought him forth, or his father who caused her to be pregnant with him and Vandlorr. He ached for his brother's company, now like then; when fear crippled him, Vandlorr slumped over his trembling sibling to keep him warm.

From that instance, shivering, mewling, underneath a protective parallel, the two were adopted by a She-creature who needed no physical manifestation to embrace them as if in arms of radiant warmth. And whatever it was that they needed, Dyiij saw that they received. And if there was anything their hearts yearned for, Dyiij saw to their desires.

The only thing she ever asked of them was that they not be silent:

— Sing to me, Dyiij had said, because the melody and harmony of my Precious Ones is a deep joy to the core of my heart.

Yonathael tried to swallow the lump in his throat. His mind ran against the wind, racing through the wastes, knowing that Vandlorr purposely let him get ahead. In those days, Dyjian was but a Téyig's playground; in those days before Men, before the 'Felled Star'.

But then, the Men-village Aylokazus — the unnatural, frigid, electric wind that seemed to set his insides ablaze. As his vision faded, and the world around him spun, then, there, with a shrill, desperate utterance, a pair of eyes: two rings of solid gold flashed briefly in the blackening of his vision.

The rest of Yonathael's memories were not what they were supposed to be. He sighed, returning to the present, where he was, in Alekzandrya's prison.

The cell door seemed like another reinforced wall. They were all brushed steel inside; everything was brushed steel, from the toilet, to the sink, to the light-fixture and the cot's frame. He sat down at the small desk, the sole other piece of furniture apart from the cot and the chair he sat in.

"Iiji," he crooned, in his natural voice; Savuung, that is, his birth language. "If this keeps up, I fear I'll die by boredom. Please come and speak with me, I am sad and alone."

— Lamentation, an outcry with passion, can be heard by some as a beautiful song. She need not give him a sign for him to know that she was present. Yonathael knew. Although she had become distant in light of his condition. Still, when he cried out, she was really not far away from him.

"Are you pleased by my sorrows?" he asked.

— Yes, and no.

He furrowed his brows and focused on his feet.

— Yes, because you are still the same Yonaithes, the one you have always been since I named you.

He allowed himself a faint smile.

— And no, because when my Precious Ones suffer, I get quite pissed. And already, Mokallai has taken the life of someone dear to me, leaving his family in my custody. And Einariel, that pretentious Iisae, has toyed enough with minds and hearts.

"Then what are you going to do?"

— It is a complicated situation. Yet I have a simple plan: I'm going to torment Mokallai, then kill him. But not right away.

"Excuse my imprudence, but the longer this goes on —"

— The more corrupt and devastated Dyjian gets, I am aware. Hence I refuse to act hastily. Is it not within my power to restore what has been tarnished? Or else, if I so choose, to make it over? I play this game of Mokallai's because in the end, I dream of a greater Dyjian. Wherein my peoples will be restored, and my world expanded. There will be new things, and better works to be done. This is my world. Just as I built Alekzandrya with you, so it belongs to whomever I give it. And the one I wish to hand Dyjian to is not born yet.

"Who will you give it to? What will 'he' be like? Will I know him?"

— In due time, Yonaithes. For right now, I have laid the foundation, and a new Kingdom must mount it. And it will be called 'The Kingdom of Ecstasy'.

There were questions brewing in Yonathael's mind. So many things he wanted to know. He drew his breath and parted his lips to sing his thoughts to Dyiij, when one of the cell's walls shifted and slid open; the cell door opened.

What sobering moments were intended to proceed after the opening of his cell quickly turned frivolous, as his violet-burgundy eyes settled on their spitting image. Yonathael, for a hasty second, thought someone was foolish enough to place a mirogram in front of him, that this likeness of his before him was there to mock him. But when he saw that ever-mirthful, lighthearted and care-free smirk, Yonathael, near to tears, threw his arms around Vandlorael.

His emotions were a deluge to his spirit. Such complete joy, and crippling agony, that whirled around within him in great torrents began pouring down his cheeks with his tears, and his regret. He began to slide down to the floor. Vandlorael gripped Yonathael, and slid down with him. That smirk never changed.

"You...?"

"I came as soon as I heard."

"They...?"

Vandlorael shook his head. "Iiji told me you had returned. This before I received Mylisto's summons," he said, in the language only they understood.

Another reason Yonathael was inclined to weep: Mylisto.

"Come on, get up," Vandlorael said, melodically, cheerfully.

Yonathael quaked, holding onto his brother's arm, staying a half-pace behind and to his right. The attendant at the desk, once they had cleared the cell block and had come to the front lobby, past the visitation center, couldn't tell who she had let in and who was to be checked out.

"S-sir?" she stammered.

"I am Vandlorael," he said, pointing at himself. "He's Yonathael. I would like to have him with me until his court date, if that is permissible."

"S-sure." She nodded, and flicked up some forms. "If he goes off and commits a murder while he's on your name —"

"Yes, yes, I will forfeit my life in addition to his, I know. Where do I sign?"

She forwarded him a stylus. "The bold line."

"Ah, seih." He signed his name: Vandlorael Desthantes Alekzandyr. "Come, Yonai, there's much you must see."

Yonathael then signed his.

Stepping into the arid air, not once in nearly thirty years had the clockwork of Alekzandrya changed. Yonathael knew this, because the industrial rhythm of the city was plain to his Reyeélle eyes. His brother was less concerned with the mechanics of its operations, how the populace fulfilled their duties, and when the shifts changed. But the logic of it all had to bear a particular chime to Yonathael, or else he'd go mad, the same way an architect does when he discovers that his building is incurably crooked.

As far as Vandlorael was concerned, the structure was too bland. It was all shades of gray and sepia and faint hints of blue. It should have been hot pink and piss yellow, according to him. But it was a fortress-turned-city, and he enjoyed at least having built it alongside Yonathael so many centuries ago.

Yonathael halted at the mouth of Nexus. Vandlorael got six paces ahead of him and turned. He studied his brother's face. "Welcome home?" Vandlorael asked.

Yonathael woefully sighed. "I wish it so. Did you ever find 'Nakea?" His ears shifted upwards along with his brow as he watched Vandlorael lift his finger, his face full of good hope.

But not what Yonathael had expected: "No," he sang, and cocked his head, "I do believe I found something close to her, though. He bears a striking resemblance to her — and us, I might add. The other one sort-of does, too."

"Twins?"

"Not quite. Quas — Qyisaadt, you know, the weird bond."

"So then."

Vandlorael shrugged. "Maybe you should ask her."

"What difference would it make?"

Vandlorael held his fist to his chest. "A lot," he said. "I hate seeing you so dejected —"

"Then you should've left me to rot!" Yonathael snapped. Mere seconds later, his eyes watered. "If only I did more —"

"And what more could you have done, Yonai? You were a possessed Reye — you are a possessed Reyeélle. But while you have these fleeting moments of being yourself, enjoy it, if not bear it, at least for this while, please."

Yonathael strode on.

"I do suggest you meet the other one; he is so much like you," Vandlorael said, as the entrance doors parted and they passed through. "In fact, he is you — they both are, yet in different ways. Brother, you must see them!"

Yonathael stalked through the broad and high corridors of Nexus with a spectre-like regal stride. His steps were soft to the floor, near silent, and meticulous, graceful, like when the crane goes and does not disturb the water. There was an immediate recognition of his person. Even labeled as The Murderer of The Arch Ganton, all the staff of Nexus stepped aside, thudded their fists to their chest between their hearts, and bowed their heads, pinning their gaze to the floor until Yonathael passed by.

As, really, he was still the rightful Lord of what is his household.

The servitors outside the conference room were hushed with the swish of Yonathael's hand. He stood, watching, tentatively, the white-haired man dressed in regalia deserving of a lofty station; a Prince.

It was not Rollond's clothing that gave him the distinction, but the fine black lines of his eyelids, the ones that drew out the abysmal dimension of his blue irises; ever-deepening pools, such as when a man ponders his life, tossed about on the boat and, he comes to learn, how dark and far down the ocean floor is. What perils lay underneath that tumultuous blue?

Mylisto's Mannkarian blood dominated his physical appearance. He had that thick, stocky frame from muscles he didn't work to own. But, the white of his hair and the palette of his skin was from Yonathael, as a Reye's blood has a natural tendency to 'bleach' the occasional offspring every other generation or so.

Rollond sighed heavily and rimmed his crown with his thumb and index finger, wishing he could skip these boring events in his life.

"You were right," Yonathael said.

"When was I wrong?" Vandlorael asked.

"On this: I have never had sex with a tree —"

"You dare tell me that's a woman!? Yonai! She's dark as abystheim wood and has hair like autumnpyre — and, I am thoroughly of the opinion that if she were to splay her fingers and stick out her arms, she'd look even more convincingly like an abystheim tree in autumnpyre!"

"She has breasts!"

"Knotty fobbles on the trunk of a tree," Vandlorael snickered.

Yonathael grunted.

As the meeting was coming to a close, Rollond didn't hear a word anyone said. For that matter, he had forgotten what they gathered for. He looked blankly at Marqisian, sitting next to Lellayla who cradled a curious and quiet Laylen, and Marqisian stared back.

"With your permission, Sir, we'll start relieving the distress in Kneitun right away."

"Do we actually know what's wrong there?" Rollond asked, groggily.

"Well Lellayla did say —"

"That a dead woman, a — DEAD — woman was doing something strange to the population. Since when do dead women do anything suspicious other than rot?"

"Sir, I —"

"No. Just what is this? A circus meeting?" He got up and walked out, and Mylisto soon followed him.

"Stop!" Mylisto thundered.

Rollond took a deep breath, and forced himself to relax, to keep his fingers from curling. He faced his mother. "My grace?"

"Don't you 'My grace' me, you despicable, rotten child! Have I not taught you anything!? Or do you delight in constantly embarrassing me!?"

"Woman, look, I —" A keen twinge of pain bolted from his cheek up into his brain and simultaneously down his neck into the rest of him. She backhanded him near senseless, and Rollond glared into his mother's heated gaze.

"Don't you ever again take that tone with me," she hissed.

He huffed, but stood silent, instead of making his thoughts known to her face. How intense the fire was within him, how his anger pleaded to be set loose, to burn her forever and ever; to torment his over pompous mother. He turned his back to her, and started down the hall.

Mylisto was wise enough not to say anything. It was clear to them both then: Rollond didn't want to be Neisam, and she couldn't make him; especially not like this. She started back for the conference room, only to come aware of Yonathael's analytical gaze. "Don't you be critical of me," she said.

"Critical? I was merely making note that you're doing it wrong —"

"'Doing it wrong'?" Mylisto stepped up to Yonathael, drawing so near to him that she could smell the minty flavor of his breath. "At least I was here," she said.

Yonathael narrowed his eyes and arched his brows. He put his palm over her face and pushed her back. "To know what you think of me." He stepped back, balled his fist and held it over the center of his chest. "I abandoned you, did I? It never occurred to you that perhaps that 'she-beast' you so despised served a greater role than you could've ever comprehended."

"Why don't you snuggle up to her rotted corpse." Mylisto shoved pasted Yonathael, only to stop ten paces past him, and realize what she had said.

"Tytnakea tried to love you," he said. "She even wanted to help rear your child. But you were too human for both of us. And now, the Prince abhors you, as he slips through your fingers." He turned, and saw her standing there with the faintest quiver in her frame.

His words were true. The Kyusoakin Tyiha, Tytnakea, turned up pregnant, and all Mylisto did was brood, scheme, plot, plan. She wanted 'Nakea dead, because she, Mylisto, was unable to quell her jealousy. Even now, despite how her son, Rollond, hated her, she trembled out of intense rancor. Mylisto embraced no remorse, in all of twenty-eight years, and Yonathael knew this.

"So you expect to waltz into his life and become his father?" Mylisto asked.

"No," Yonathael said. "I expect him to talk, and at times, listen. He has that obstinate part of you, I can see it in his eyes — he doesn't want a father. But still, he needs to know that he is the son of a Neisam-King."

But where was Rollond?

The Artium was almost as secret a place as the missing basement of Nexus. It was difficult to find, from the front entrance, and blended in well, especially since it seemed little more than a jumble of passageways and rooms in which pieces of art were displayed. Rollond's official place of dwelling was in the security of the northwestern annex. But there were secret rooms in the Artium; unpurposed and useless rooms. And in these he made his own abode.

No one but the Prince ever set foot there, and with all the statues and paintings of the Artium, no one bothered to discover its entrance.

He took the ring off of a peachy-skinned ginger woman, who leaned against an upward gush of water, made of stained glass. On the articulate fingers of her outstretched hand were five rings, and Rollond took the one on her thumb, and slipped it onto his middle finger. He went to the wall-high painting across from her, that she tentatively pointed at with a limped first finger, and with the press of his left hand, that featured her ring, the painting shifted as if made of liquid, and he passed on through.

He stopped only to check it with his right hand. The painting was solid and cold, like a steel slab. He stopped in his recreation room, by a small, round stand that featured something like an obsidian hand, and he slipped the ring onto one of its fingers. There were three rings on it.

Rollond ducked into the wash room. He thought it strange that the floor was covered in suds. Until a high-pitched squeal cut through the air, and So'yi slipped up the side of the in-floor tub, landed belly-first on the floor, and slid across the recreation room into the kitchen.

Rollond was glad he didn't have carpet. He quickly threw on some jeans and a shirt, then he stepped out. So'yi sat on her haunches, watching him as he passed through the recreation room and on into the vastness of the vivarium. It seemed a strange place, that somehow Nexus wasn't aware of it. Granted, Nexus did have gardens, but none of them were designed or stocked like this one. Almost as if it was made to accommodate someone, or something.

That made sense, as Ashenzsi dangled from a sole foot that gripped the drooping mahogany-orange branches of an old succle-boz tree, lapping at one of the bright sky-blue and pastel pink fruits that were as big as a melon. Maybe this place was intended to keep a Kyusoa?

Rollond didn't sit on that thought. His mind was occupied with discouraging news, and he grimaced at the idea of a promise he couldn't keep. He sauntered over the bridge, gradually, taking time with each pace. A rustle in one of the bushes snatched his attention, and he saw two identical men standing in the distance. One pointed at Ashenzsi, and uttered some indistinguishable slur of sounds to the other, who nodded.

"Excuse me," Rollond said. He stopped mid-bridge and faced them. "This is a restricted area; how did you get here?"

Vandlorael arched his brows. He parted his lips to speak, but Yonathael stepped forward and cut him off: "There is more than one way to get here," Yonathael said.

Rollond grunted. "There is only one that I know of —"

"That you know of, yes. But is an architect not intimate with his work?" A faint grin highlighted Yonathael's features, as Rollond paused.

"You know this place?"

"I do." Yonathael nodded. "This and many others. In fact, I know nearly all the secrets of Nexus, the good, the bad, and the past."

Rollond quirked his brow. "The past?"

"M'hm."

"Perhaps you can help me, then?" Rollond asked. He didn't move, as Vandlorael and Yonathael strode towards the bridge. "My friend there," he motioned towards Ashenzsi, who had dropped into the deep end of the lake and was tentatively pursuing fish. "He's interested in knowing about his heritage. He showed me a symbol, the sole lead that brought him to this place. I promised him I would find what connection he has with Nexus, but so far..."

"It is a futile search, I know." Yonathael watched Ashenzsi, who seemed bent on keeping his distance from the three of them. "Perhaps it would be to your benefit to know that your father, and his, is the same."

"That would explain the symbol." Rollond rubbed his chin. "But he and I are — far from alike."

"No, no, dearest Prince. What courses through your veins also flows though him. I suspect he was never looking for answers to begin with, but, rather, an insignia — a biological familiarity, what it is that makes any Kyusoa feel at home, at ease. You see, it is not what's on the outside that matters, it is what resides deep within. And to that, you must know, that you are the sons of a Neisam-lord." He could sense Rollond's rejection of what he was saying. Yonathael's statements sprung more questions, and this was present on the Prince's visage as well.

"Why is that a thing? Why does everyone insist on making me know that I —"

"Because it means, Prince, that one day you will awaken, and see that the world of your dreams isn't the same as the one you rise to. And it will be your compelling, mortal urge to fix that." This was something the Prince hadn't considered before, Yonathael saw that.

"And for my friend?"

"It means — It... means..." Yonathael folded his arms over his stomach. He grunted, and gradually bowed over. Vandlorael slid his arm under Yonathael's and held him up. A cold twinge burst into his limbs, and his stomach agitated like a valley before a volcanic eruption. He became hot, and his vision blackened. As it did, he lifted his crumpled hands and caught a glimpse of his skin; how the rich olive color melted away to that grisly white — as if he were a painting and someone doused him with turpentine. "I — I must go," Yonathael panted.

Rollond stepped towards him. "You alright? What's happening? Maybe I can help you —"

Yonathael covered his face with his arm and shrank back. "No!" he snarled. His eyes were flashing, and gradually, he could feel it — like the stab of a thousand needles in sensitive oculars, the color was turning. "S-stay... just stay back. Stay away, Prince, keep away from me!"

With arched brows and bright eyes, Vandlorael gave Rollond a surprised, and somewhat apologetic glance. Rollond narrowed his eyes in response, and lowered his head in a slow half-nod. And with that, Vandlorael shuffled Yonathael back the way they had come.

That instance was a collage of different things: unanswered questions; time cut too short; lost thoughts; and embittering tears.

The huff of the cell door was a false comfort for Yonathael. He crumpled to his knees on the hard floor, clutching the cold bed frame, holding on for dear life as the whites of his eyes dribbled down his cheeks, mingled with violet and burgundy that turned plum and pinkish red. Even the auburn color of his stringy locks tumbled from him like hot wax, making way for the raven black.

Finally, his tremors settled, and he rose from the floor. He glanced around his small quarters, turned, and sat on the cot. A broad grin shaped his features.

The Trial's beginning was more of a ritualistic formality than an actual proceeding. It had more to do with titles and stations, allegations and accusations rather than getting to the bottom of what really took place. They brought in the bullet and the staff, although unsure how to demonstrate how the two worked to kill Arlen.

Then, finally, they brought Yonathael before Mylisto. He was not the same man she had remembered, even from so long ago. How those polished golden eyes in those black-rimmed, pale sockets were remorseless and ever distant sent chills down her spine, like fingers of ice raking along her skin, touching her even to the marrow of her bones.

"Did you do it?" the prosecutor asked.

Yonathael tilted his head back like a sleep-laden man. His lips hung open, and he shut his eyes.

The prosecutor stepped over to the small island in the center of the court, where Yonathael sat, his hands cuffed behind him to the back of the chair. The prosecutor got in Yonathael's face, and in a tone so serious, almost commandingly sinister, he pitched the question once more: "Did you do it? Did you kill the Arch Ganton —"

"Yes," Yonathael said, his tone placid, cool, monotonous. "I killed Arlen."

"Why," the prosecutor asked. "What reason — what 'reward' was there in taking his —"

"He was a means to an end." Yonathael sat up. "To come here and have this trail, something I've plotted since the start. The whole reason I bothered with Sara was to get under his skin; to entice him into thinking he had to come after me, to convince him it was his destiny."

Yonathael sought Mylisto's gaze, and held her diamond-hard eyes. "Because that's what you humans call 'Fate', is it not? How everything must happen for a reason, leading to one specific, undeniable, inevitable end."

"Who are you?" Mylisto asked. "Since it is demonstrative that you are not Yonathael, he would never — say — such things!"

Yonathael arched his brows, as a grin slid across his lips. "Yes, Yonathael would not," he said. "I am Mokallai, and this body — Yonathael's body — is my tent."

The silence, it was speculative silence; a peculiar quiet where Mokallai could feel the cogs of each individual mind hard at work. It was something hard for them to understand. But Mylisto, as she boldly maintained his gaze, knew. She fathomed it flawlessly.

"Spirit," Mylisto said, "what do you want?"

"What is rightfully mine," Mokallai said, through Yonathael's lips. "The power and glory that belongs to me. I am Destiny, I am Fate; I deserve absolute eminence, as no one can escape my power. When I deafened the ears of the blond man, he came running to me — so, too, when I turned your heart to stone you broke the warding bond between this vessel and his dearest love for me!"

Mylisto's face changed, and Mokallai watched with a sweet-salty grin on Yonathael's lips. She gripped the arms of her throne, and sank into the seat, as if something wrenched her down. "Ts-tsuboha," she gasped.

Anileon flattened back his ears and scowled at Yonathael. He bared his teeth, snarling. The audience gasped to see him like this, his visage becoming wilder with each passing second; shocked to see the Executor-Prefect lowering himself to the floor like a rabid beast.

"Yes, it's hard to believe, isn't it?" Mokallai sneered. "Had you left him and that She-beast alone, I never would have had the opportunity to overpower Yonathael out in the marsh. Neither would Arlen be dead, or your boy an obtuse, wayward, son of a —"

"Shut your rotten mouth!" Anileon bellowed.

"Oh-ho, but these revelations are formidable, aren't they? It's disquieting to know that all of this was orchestrated by my own hand; quiet and subliminal, eluding even the most skillful critical eye." Mokallai chuckled. "But alas, my dear, your end has come."

It seemed that time slowed, as the whites of Yonathael's eyes drained to pitch blackness. His hellish gaze sparked an uncanny, infectious terror, that, as Mylisto watched the members of the audience rise to flee, she was paralyzed.

It was that staff of his, sitting innocently on the evidence table, that lifted into the air. It turned until its two ends aimed at Mylisto, and with violent speed, screaming through the conditioned air, it hurtled towards her, twisting like a drill.

She looked on with wide eyes, her arms and legs trembling, as — Anileon lurched forth.

He shoved Mylisto aside, and snapped the staff between his jaws. He flung the halves back at Yonathael, satisfied that the blunt end was aimed to pierce through Yonathael's throat. But that half veered left.

It swung around Yonathael, and before Anileon could register what happened, a hard gasp, then a low groan broke the tension. All Anileon could hear was the ring of Yonathael's cuffs, once they slid off his wrists and clamored on the floor.

Yonathael stood. "I desire so much to see this through," Mokallai said. "Suffice it enough to know that your death is not in vain." With that he turned, and with a high stature, as when a young, maned lion patrols his pride, he departed from the judicial chambers.

This was the first time in his life that Anileon could not stop his hands from trembling. He hovered over Myliso, who clutched the blunt end of the staff in her blackened, bloodied hands. It had run her through, speared her navel, and she as bleeding profusely, both front and back.

Anileon took hold of the halved staff and started to pull.

"Nngh! No!" Mylisto panted, "leave it!"

"M-my Grace..." His voice was soft, and shivered with him. Yet his eyes were severe, as he watched the black-silver gushes trickle down her stomach and drench her dress.

Mylisto tilted her head back, exhausted. She heard the soft hiss of the doors sliding open, but couldn't see who came in; her eyes were useless, her vision little more than indistinguishable pitches of black and the occasional faded gray outline of motion.

"By Dyiij!" Vandlorael exclaimed. He moved Anileon aside and knelt down in front of her. He ripped the sleeves of his robe, wadded them around her wound, and pushed.

"It's too late for me," Mylisto said.

"Not if you shut your mouth," Vandlorael grunted.

She chuckled, weakly pushing his hands off of her. "You don't command me, Reyeélle!"

"If you would just listen and live —"

"Silence!" She snapped. Then her eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, and she panted; snarling took much from her. She reached under the collar of her dress, and pulled out a braided reddish-white-and-yellow gold chain. Its pendant was the symbol of the Forty-Four, but the insignia of the Forty-Fifth lay etched in the smooth, pristine, diamond-like Ra'ol stone. She held it out to Vandlorael.

He hesitated to take it.

"I trust you will know what to do," Mylisto said, her voice fragile. She could see the blurred, gray motion of Vandlorael's nod. Then she reached for Anileon. "Come here, Tsuboha."

Anileon was still heated, as he crawled over to Mylisto, and curled around her like a beast comforting its pup. His shiver was soothing, because he was especially warm.

She heard the door slide open, then shut.

Vandlorael spared no haste as he strode down the halls. He looped the chain around his belt and tucked the stone under his robe.

The elevator dinged, and Rollond stepped out. Utter confusion marked Rollond's features. He looked at Vandlorael, who pressed on into the stairwell. His skin rippled at how empty Nexus was. It would have been different if blood was smeared all over the walls, and corpses were strewn about among debris and fire. But the governing complex was pristine and silent.

As he came to the judicial chamber, the quiet was particularly unnerving. And as the doors parted, the hairs on the back of Rollond's neck stood on end. He wasn't sure which was more concerning: the elongated body of Anileon, who was shifting as certain Kyusoas do, or the sight of his mother, pressed to Anileon, clinging to him like a child would a large pet.

"You...?" Rollond's eyes stung with his every step. "How...?" He couldn't form a single, whole thought. Down on his knees, in that black-silver puddle, he gripped his mother's shoulders, and gently, carefully, pulled her off of Anileon.

Despite how much they despised one another, Rollond couldn't retain his hot, salty tears; he was still her son. He cradled his mother, who was still cooling, even though her pulse had long since stopped. Rollond struggled to hold his composure.

Whether minutes or hours passed him by, he wasn't sure. Furthermore, he couldn't care. His core had gone cold, and he shivered, his skin steaming from an anger so intense.

He didn't hear the internal cry for help from Ashenzsi, his Brother. Nor did Rollond take note when the great, uniform window of the chamber shattered, and the bits of glass were rapidly sucked out by a fierce wind; a power of air so potent, that like the fingers of a gigantic celestial hand, it curled around the roof and tore the ceiling off.

At last, he had no choice but to let Mylisto go. Carefully Rollond peeled Mylisto from the stain of her blood, stood, and steadied himself with her in his arms. The wind torrent, dense with wet desert sand, threatened to rip Rollond off of his feet, as it snatched the body of his mother up from his arms.

It was then that he noted Ashenzsi's shrill, dual-toned cry from Highbar, below the broken-open judicial chamber:

Ashenzsi lunged forth. Even in such a short burst, his speed was more than enough to rip a man in two, except, Yonathael wasn't that man. With a flat palm and straight fingers, he caused Ashenzsi's violent momentum to instantly halt. Like jumping into a brick wall, Ashenzsi shrieked in pain.

Yonathael pinched his thumb and middle fingers together, rolled his hand, and then swept the back of it towards Ashenzsi. And Ashenzsi, in his great beastly form, but as if made of paper, was flung over the end of Alekzandrya city.

Yonathael cocked his head side to side and popped his neck. Such weak aelyth; Ashenzsi couldn't even touch him —

He failed to notice that Ashenzsi anchored himself to the city's edge with a handful of magnificent, fearsome talons. He swung his lengthsome body around, and lashed Yonathael's backside with his tail.

Yonathael screamed and fell to one knee. He curled his fingers and his hands shook. The burning sting was so intense, he couldn't move.

Not even a second later, a tremendous force smashed between Yonathael's shoulder blades. Rollond, with both his fists tightly wound, descended from the devastated judicial chamber and landed a blow on Yonathael that, normally, would have turned his spine to jelly and killed him.

But Mokallai's aelyth absorbed the force of Rollond's blow; Yonathael tumbled to the ground, only to bounce and stagger back onto his feet.

Rollond's fury was upon him. He didn't pause. Even as Yonathael bounced and staggered, Rollond was on him. His fist burst onto Yonathael's frame, again and again, beating Yonathael down.

Until Yonathael snatched Rollond's coming wrist, and twisted his arm, breaking his elbow. Rollond yelped, but before he had time to retaliate, Mokallai's aelyth slashed through Rollond. It wasn't like a manifestation of light, fire, or the strike of thunder. It simply distorted the world around them, like the clear waves of intense heat. And yet, it was terribly painful, so much so that Rollond's body couldn't register it. But he collapsed to his knees all the same, weakened and faint.

Ashenzsi bolted for Yonathael a second time, and Yonathael half-turned, snatching Ashenzsi's lower maw in his free hand. He clutched the low-maw of the beast in an infallible grip, paying no mind to the fact that Ashenzsi's massive, serrated tooth cut his hand, and he bled. He wrenched the beast down onto his side, slamming Ashenzsi's head, thrice, to the floor.

Mokallai snorted. He may be a decayed Aelythian being, a spirit brought low. But even in his weakness, he reveled at how superior the remnant of his power was.

For Rollond and Ashenzsi, it was baffling. How? How was this possible? That they overcame every obstacle, rose to every challenge, subdued their every enemy, resolved every conflict, but they were helpless against Mokallai.

"You know," Mokallai cooed, by Yonathael's voice. "You did well for beginners. I will give you this much: you marred my vessel, this body. But you are still powerless, frail, fleshbeings. And it is time for you both to see your ends."

Seeing the two of them defeated, Rollond and Ashenzsi, So'yi dashed for Yonathael. "Let them go!" she screamed, as she sailed through the air, fangs and claws bared to claw Yonathael to pieces.

He released Rollond and caught her by her neck. "Ah, the little one,~" Mokallai cooed, with Yonathael's grinning lips. "I remember you, yes, from that one time, when you were peering into Rollond and found me." He tightened his grip, gradually crushing her throat. "Die."

So'yi choked and thrashed to no avail. Her struggles grew weaker, and weaker, and as her strength failed, her eyes, her milky gaze, locked onto Mokallai's thick rings of polished gold.

The spirit looked on, unable to stop himself. And as he did, Yonathael's hands began to tremble. His whole body, this vessel, his tent, jolted, and flung So'yi away. He screamed and covered his eyes that were flickering uncontrollably.

There was something about her eyes, something damaging that made him writhe on the floor, thrashing and kicking. Mokallai couldn't think what it was, but staring into her pearl-white eyes strengthened Yonathael, somehow, giving him courage to try and expel Mokallai.

It was strange to watch, because as Yonathael flailed about, something like gelatinous, coagulated blood oozed from him. The black mass wrestled with Yonathael, who kept tearing away from it. But his struggles quickly turned into a fight he couldn't win.

"Your contemptible eyes!" Mokallai hissed, having regained Yonathael. He kept his eyelids shut, and groped around for So'yi.

She scattered over to Rollond and tapped his cheeks. "Wake up," she panted. "Wake up, please, please!~"

Yonathael was coming closer.

She gripped Rollond's shoulder and shook him. He was like a lead slab, and her jostling did nothing to rouse him.

Yonathael crept up to them. He was a hand's reach away from So'yi, when a bold light emanated from Rollond's chest. It was the Ra'ol stone Dyiij put inside him. As if now coming to life, its light pierced through the sky, shattering the eye of the wet-sandstorm. Then its radiance filled the entirety of Rollond's body, until he appeared to be a bright beacon, and then it spread over the floor of Highbar.

The power of Dyiij, by her stone in Rollond's chest, caused the entire structure of Alekzandrya City to split in two.

The city straddled the river. And it separated exactly the way the river flowed through it; one half of the city was intact on one bank, and the other likewise on the opposite side.

Rollond, and So'yi, were on the edge of the split. He fell into the river — a drop so far that when he smacked into the rushing waters, he should have died. And So'yi with him, because she fell too. But she landed in a net on the end of a pole, half way down the split.

Vandlorael pulled her in, and gestured for her to stay quiet. He cautiously carried her through the halved city, and he didn't stop until he reached a pair of Kyusoas who were waiting for him. He mounted one, and set So'yi in front of him between the Kyusoa's shoulders. And swiftly, quietly, they went north.

So'yi tapped Vandlorael's knee. "What about Shenzsi? What about Rollond?" she asked. "We have to go back for them!" she said, weakly, her voice tiny.

"No," Vandlorael said.

"But, why?" So'yi demanded.

— Because this very matter is out of your hands, Dyiij said. Though you are quite noble, little Téyig, I will not tolerate you perishing over your stubbornness. I have plans for you, just as I have plans for them, too.

So'yi glanced back over Vandlorael's thigh. Alekzandrya was a towering silhouette, ominous and foreboding. There was a presence, invisible, yet tangible, spreading over the rolling dunes faster than they could travel.

At the peak of that monumental silhouette stood Mokallai, clad in Yonathael's flesh, watching as they became smaller, and smaller, until finally, they disappeared into the north sunset. It didn't matter how far, or where, they went; there was no refuge.

Mokallai forced Yonathael to grin. Even as Yonathael's hands shook, and he curled his fingers until his nails dug into his skin, and his palms bled. He gritted his teeth, but what could he do?

Nothing. Everyone — Rollond, Ashenzsi, So'yi, Vandlorael — all of them will face Destiny; there is no escaping Mokallai. And as Yonathael narrowed his eyes, he came to this conclusion:

He had to find a way to hinder Mokallai, even if it meant forfeiting his own life.
Infodumps.

Dyjian's Calendar.

The peoples of Dyjian enjoy a routine and predictable, albeit irregular, calendar. The six days of Dyjian reflect the common values of the Çéi, the Kyusoa, and Humankind. For that reason the calendar is unique in that it combines Gyutic and Tswaa words take for example, the first day of the week, Schiivas, literally meaning 'A Day for Work.' Schii is the short form of Schiitevni, meaning 'At my task' in Tswaa'ii. It is shortened so that it may be joined with Vas, meaning 'Day-span' in Gyton. Hence, Schiivas.

The days and their meanings are as follows:

The months of Dyjian's calendar are broken down into nine weeks each month. This makes for a total of 54 days in a typical month, and because of the way that the weeks are done, each day will always correspond to a specific day-number in the month. For example:

Regardless of what month, the days corresponding with Schiivas will always be the 1st, 7th, 13th, so on and so forth. It is the same with all the days.

The calendar is divided into 27 months; 9 for the three seasons. The first season is Istapalmaureng, correlating loosely to Earth's spring. Istapalmaureng comes from two Gyutic words — Ista, a prefix meaning 'Start Anew'; and Palmaureng which means 'Celestial Dance.'

The nine months of Istapalmaureng are:

The second season can be likened to something like summer. Temperatures across Dyjian rise, and even Malzeyur, the Bog of Perpetual Rain, gets a little dryer. However, the new-growth aspects of Earthen-spring are still long into effect, even months into the second season. This is why the second season is called Dauremzgelpakte. And like the previous season, Dauremzgelpakte is a compound — Daure, meaning 'Promise'; Mzgel, 'Lengthsome'; and Pakte, 'Revival.' Hence the summer-like season of Dauremzgelpakte features brief spurts of autumn-like dormancy and natural decay.

The months of Dauremzgelpakte are:

In the final season, Dyjian does experience drops in temperature. Being a tropical planet, this drop is no where near as significant as what we know of Earth — that the world can go from near-boiling to below freezing in the northern and southern hemispheres. The world of Dyjian falls into what appears to be a quiet, peaceful — albeit deep — slumber. During this time, the dormancy of plant life is inescapeable, sewing of new crops is impossible, and for the next nine months, the indigenous rely on a surplus of gathered resources, as well as hunting to survive.

This is why the third season is called Nai-Yiim Suuleitaad, meaning 'I am Fatly Slumbering' in Tswaa'ii. It marks the waning of the celestial cycle — a full year having gone two-thirds by, and is a time primarily of enjoying the fruits of one's labors.

The months of this season are:

In relation to Earth's time, Dyjian's years are significantly longer. To compare the planets side-by-side is to suggest a fixed relativity in which an Earthling can comprehend a Dyjiling's perception of time. But, alas, because they exist in Yrell Aiene Tautom, we are unable to factually measure Dyjian's time in comparison to our own. Besides, what shared perception is there to be had between mortal men and men who live forever? We are defined by our brief number of years; they are delimited by something else entirely.
Something About Languages.

There are three main languages among Yatomites. These are not limited specifically to Dyjian.

The most common language is Gyuton, the Language of Mankind.

Gyuton is actually a mixed dialect. It descended from English, its parent language, but does have some German, Cornish, and Swedish influences. However, the language was born primarily from Humanity's isolation from the rest of us on our 'normal' planet, in our 'normal' universe (sigh~).

That said, there's a great number of uses for Gyuton, such as ease of translating Tswaa'ii into English. It also has a number of non-English (non-Earthen, for that matter) expressions. Again, this is because Gyuton came about as a result of humans being stuck in Yrell Aiene Tautom. And because English Grammar sucks —

For example, if an Earthling were to stop and ask a Yatomite "What's a predicate?" He might notice that the Yatomite will spend hours, maybe days, trying to figure out just what is a predicate.

Or, they'll stop and ask "You know what a analdamyr is?"

Analdamyr, noun: something this person does not care about.

Or perhaps they'll exclaim "Analdammel!"

Analdammel, adjective: One's state of absolute unconcern and uncaring; pure apathy.

Yes, no Yatomite cares about English grammar.

This is all the more so true when it comes to Tswaa'ii.

Now, to understand Tswaa'ii is to first take a step back and realize that A) this an alien language, and B) this is an alien language descended from an even more alien and incomprehensible language. Hence why Tswaa'ii has no conventions of conceivable, comprehensible grammar. There are limitless ways to say literally anything. And to the renowned language professor, that may very well be a terrible and abhorrent thing to imagine — a language with no grammar is not a language!

But, Tswaa'ii is. More so than a language of Intellect, like Gyuton, it is a language of Heart. The Kyusoa, who primarily speak Tswaa'ii, don't express themselves from a mental standpoint — they don't speak with their minds. This is the understanding of what "Rou'u" is. It is a word with a composite meaning, encompassing mind, spirit, and heart. It is equally applied to speaking as it is to actions; one cannot defy who they are, and Tswaa'ii, as a language, is a reflection of this core ideal of the Kyusoa.

Hence why the lack of grammar in Tswaa'ii is acceptable; they simply say what they mean — no structure for understanding them required.

But the other reason, as mentioned before, is a direct result of the inherited Çéi language, called Savuung.

Savuung, if you heard it, is a mishmash of technological sounds. It'd be safe to say that Savuung is dubstep — it's just as wobbled and bass-y and irritating (or pleasing, if you like that sort of thing) as the music genre and many of its variants. That is why it is the number one most impossible-to-decipher language in all Yrell Aiene Tautom, a title the Çéi proudly take advantage of.

On the other hand, if someone starts up a good beat, then Savuung conversations can be pretty intense, from a musical standpoint.

However, regardless of which language a person uses, when it comes to getting an Audience before an Alyi, all languages are acceptable. This is especially true in the case of Foreigners — those who came from places far, far away.
Dyjian, The Chief World of Nonsense.

The common understanding that all worlds cohabit in the same 'thread' of time and space is readily accepted by most people. After all, there is much speculation on Parallel Universes; the concept of a Multiverse, though not yet proved, tantalizes the minds of intellectuals and the imaginative musings of visionaries alike. It is commonly agreed upon that in a never-ending spool of possible parallels, there are many different versions of the same thing; many different versions of the same people, each one in some way marginally different than the last, for example. This is critical to understanding precisely where the planet, Dyjian, exists — as it is neither parallel, nor marginally different.

To declare it a figment embedded in an Alternate Reality wouldn't do it justice. Dyjian remains buried within the same tapestry of reality that affects and is affected by the same universe we inhabit. Problem is, no one knows where its native space and galaxy (possibly, galaxies) are, or how to access them.

Collectively, that space is called Yrell Aiene Tautom, an ever-expanding 'something' that is sectioned into six realms. The Third Domain, so-named Uann Ouraetach, is harbor to Dyjian where it operates as a pinion for this realm under the reckless oversight of its Alyi, Dyiij.

The illogical nature of Dyjian begins with it being a planet. It is a hollow sphere, with a very thin crust and diminished mantle. It features a violent core of plasma that exerts pressure on the crust until the planet is made to expand. Once pressure is relieved, the planet spends 1.8 billion years contracting until the next expansion occurs. No one knows where all this plasma comes from, just that it's infinitely generated in Dyjian's core. Hence the volatile state of the planet is integral to the world associated with it. Not that it'll burst, but it won't stabilize, either.

The world is tropical, boasting of 'witherings' — periods of typical plant death and decay — but no winters. From a chemical standpoint, the atmosphere is very oxygen rich, but also has extreme concentrations of carbon and nitrogen. It's a massive greenhouse, one that is very, very hostile towards Humanity. The naturally occurring plant life is especially hazardous to human anatomy. Meats harvested from the animals contains enough toxins to kill a full grown man within fifteen minutes of ingestion.

However, its lethal environment allows for some unique life forms. One such example is the Aphagerodict, a member of a family of sentient plants commonly known as the 'Idiot Canes'. It is a thick, tree-like succulent plant with massive, white feathery laves that drizzle an opaque plum-white or pink-white goop (depending on whether the trunk is bright plum or pink). This goop is a highly addictive digestive enzyme that, upon ingestion, causes temporary paralysis and hallucinations, as well as lasting euphoria and psychosis. When in this state, the plant has been known to trap its addicts within its leaves, partially digest the victim, and pull them through the plant's stem.

More than its horrifying, carnivorous capabilities, the Aphagerodict is the only succulent tree known to uproot itself and, in a heated fury worthy of being called the 'Ironic Wrath of the Divine', the plant will relentlessly chase the object of its anger, mash it to bits, and then trek back to its favorite spot — where it was rooted in the first place.

Such is the nature of Dyjian. It is a world not to be taken lightly, especially since its pretty plants just might eat the unwary traveler.

Another aspect of note is the lack of any mention of moons. In its place are 'streaks of silvery dust' that snake through the sky. Once, there were eight luminaries. However, Humanity's catastrophic arrival came with an unwanted toll. As if heralded by an ominous omen, a vessel from an international fleet appeared abruptly on a night of celebration, wherein the moons were in perfect formation. This vessel blasted its way through the luminaries until it finally caught on a certain few, sending it crashing into Dyjian, broken up into chunks. The silvery streaks serve as a reminder of that event.
A Broken Apex Predator, the Çéi.

Dyjian's inhabitants are as exotic as the world itself. There are three types of people featured in this narrative.

The first are the Çéi.

Çéi-kind can be described as an eccentric and philosophical people, who come in two sorts. The first sort that occurred naturally on Dyjian are called the Reyeélles. These are humanoid in appearance, having a slightly pointed pinna to their ears; wide, black-lined eye frames that point upward at the outer corner; four fingers and six toes. Their bodies are are disproportionately long and slender compared to that of a true human being, yet they have very little trouble passing as 'human'. The Reyeélles are often mistakenly referred to as 'men' and 'women'. They take this as a sign of endearment.

The technology belonging to the Çéi is nothing like what humans are accustomed to. Their advancements have an appearance that mirrors nature. Hence it is hard to designate the term 'technological' advancement to anything a Çéi does, from a human standpoint.

This does not mean that we can as a society fail to recognize this much: they introduced a nanoscopic organism into the biology of Mankind, thusly saving all humans on Dyjian; and the sheer skill and unparalleled mastery evident in their most beloved creation, the Kyusoa.

It is not known of what means the Reyeélles did these things, since, as stated before, it is difficult for a human to comprehend a Çéi's alien technology, specially since it doesn't appear very much different than the natural elements of the world around them (unlike ours which is largely comprised of metal, wires, plastics and liquid crystal(s), among other things).

It is of note that Reyeélles are not the only Çéi.

There are also Téiygs, the more beast-y appearing cousins of the Reyeélles. And like their humanoid cousins, they are also a deeply meditative, philosophical species. But Téiygs are also hunters, and very territorial. Often mistaken for mere beasts, Téiygs are cautious when approaching, or being approached, by humans. Kyusoas are wary of adult Téiygs, although fond of the strangely self-sufficient, often solitary young.

The primary way to tell a Téiyg from a Kyusoa in the Çéi's youth is to look for four fingers on the hand, and six toes on the foot. The first and sixth toes are opposable, like the first and fourth fingers, giving the Téiyg an astounding capability to literally climb up, cling to, or else move with ease along any surface — that isn't absolutely flat and polished, like glass or slabs of stainless steel.

Also of note is a Téiyg's eyes, especially after the first formative periods of puberty. Their eyelids fuse and become a clear, glossy capsule. They are a species incapable of blinking, but they develop a series of ocular apertures within the eye that allow them to focus on any specific thing with the accuracy and high-definition detail of a precision microscope.

It is a very curious thing to think that, somehow, there are Reyeélles who were initially born Téiygs. Vandlorael, Asaliael, Yonathael, among others, are an example of Téiygs turned Reyeélles. One theory points to a rapid and sudden biological transformation that happens overnight when the Téiyg is threatened on an internal, biological level; that their bodies change from beast to humanoid as a defense mechanism. And such would be true.

There was a time in Dyjian's pre-human history where the Téiygs were plagued by a devastating, incurable disease. It can be considered more akin to the outbreak of the bubonic plague, except, those affected who were not killed were instead turned into humanoids, while other survivors remained Téiygs and developed immunity. From a human standpoint, it's terribly nonsensical.

From the Çéi's standpoint, certain ones elected to become homonids with the help of Dyiij, while others chose to remain as they were. Regardless, it's a legend in the modern day of Dyjian.
The Kyusoakin.

Collectively called 'Kyusoa-kin', the Kyusoa are the most diverse and difficult to understand species of Dyjian. What we do know is that they were engineered by the Çéi. Curiously enough, they are a species with Aelyth capabilities. As a result, the Kyusoa are divided into four sub-kinds:

It is difficult to tell which of the four types one may be dealing with. One of the best ways to know for sure, is to provoke a Kyusoa, or a whole commune full of them. That will prove to be a fairly stupid idea though. Apart from that, one could simply ask. The Kyusoa are cautious, but they can be terribly friendly and loving creatures, especially since they live by two golden rules:

Love others as yourself; and

You take my child, I take yours (because there was a time where humans, ignorant of what Goji (Literally, Bossy Creature) and Nijuan (Playful Thing) grow up to be, thought they'd make great pets; hence the 'return cradle-robbing for cradle-robbing' rule).

The reason the Çéi created the Kyusoa was for protection after the initial outbreak of the unknown disease that lead to the two Çéi types. Reyeélles weren't so savvy at defending themselves as they once were, and they often felt they were missing something in their lives, now that they were no longer beasts. Hence the Kyusoa later became companions to their makers.

Before long, it wasn't uncommon to hear of Reyeélles taking Kyusoas as mates, as the two had a lot in common. This lead to a phenotypic lottery concerning their offspring: Either the child was going to appear like a Kyusoa, a Reyeélle, or be a Téiyg.

This 'lottery' became especially concerning once the Reyeélles started having human partners — because it's hard to explain how a Çéi-human person, who looks unquestionably human, pops out a Téiyg for a child.

It's like if a woman gave birth to an Orca — you will want answers.
A Divergent Mankind, the Dyjiites.

We owe our survival on Dyian to the Reyeélles. Primarily, our thanks is owed for the fact that we humans were modified. The nano-organism introduced into our bodies is, initially, a parasite that occurs on Dyjian, called Anqrapaxyl.

Anqrapaxyl is a strange organism in that it is first of all organic and living (as all organisms are), but when exposed to too much air, dies. It lives in colonies, utilizing the nano-bodies of the dead to form a metal-like exterior, that mirrors the properties of an isotope. Which is why, first of all, when a Dyjian human — called an 'Uunan' — is injured, they bleed black; the black is the parasite.

The 'silver' that results later is the bodies of the dead parasites forming the odd metal. Just as the humans have varying blood types, so there are varying isotopic types of Anqrapaxyl; this results in various human-derived metals, all of which are lighter, stronger and more durable than the toughest metals present on Earth's Periodic Table of the Elements. However, each metal has inexplicable characteristics, unlike those originating on Earth.

Anqrapaxyl, as a parasite, feeds on both red and white blood cells. However, it takes on the role of blood, lymph, and immunity to ensure the survival of its host. In addition to these, it also aids in metabolism, enabling humanity to eat a wide variety of meats, fruits, vegetables, and other things deemed indible that are native to Dyjian.

Initially, humans were not open to the idea of being a host; there were many suicides, and many failed attempts that resulted in the death of the subject. Once a viable host was established, the primary concerns of the Çéi shifted to passing on this viability to humanity's offspring. It was then discovered that men have no bearing on passing Anqrapaxyl to their offspring; it is contingent solely on the woman.

Since it is present in the lining of the womb, Anqarpaxyl parasitically bores into the embryo sometime after the initial gestation and divide, and when it is developing a heart. Once inside, the organism forms an organ that functions like a heart, hence, it is called the 'Secondary Heart,' and such it is.

The Secondary Heart begins beating some time after the Primary Heart starts pumping blood. The core difference between the two isn't just placement (as the Secondary Heart is on the right side of the chest). The Secondary Heart produces Anqarpaxyl, and acts like a central 'mind' in a hive — like a Queen Bee, only minus all the Bee aspects. This heart ensures a successful Host-Organism symbiosis; without it, the organism turns on its host, effectively eating them from the inside out.

It is fair to note that there is one interesting observation about the transmission of Anqarpaxyl from mother to child: Just as the mother's body carefully considers the child within her, so does the organism when transferring from the mother into the child. Just as the offspring is unique, the organism conforms to the developing 'environment' of its future host.

After this significant modification, Humans on Dyjian were recognized as their own viable species. They were called 'Uunani' by the Kyusoa, initially out of contempt. But the name stuck, and here we are to stay.
The Unapproved Nonsensical Arts.

There are powers that permeate Yrell Ainene Tautom. These are split into two categories:

  * Aelyth, which is ethereal in nature, and will directly affect the tapestry of reality; and

  * Biological, just as it is implied. These are powers that are unique to a given species, and may not be as affecting and as damaging (potentially speaking) as the supernal, Aelythian sort.

The important thing to grasp is that all powers draw on the core life force of the entity wielding them. This keeps Flesh Beings from wrecking the universe, and discourages Aelythian Ones from crossing over into becoming Flesh, thinking that they might gain the best of both worlds (if not done properly, they tend to violently rupture and die, having bound themselves to physical existence).

Typically, unless hybrids of one or more kinds, humans are excluded from having powers. Simply, we're not natives to Yrell Aiene Tautom, so we don't get all the benefits. But, rules be damned.

Dyiij is not one to be metered, structured, and told what to do. An Alyi of untamed intuition, she tends to be rebellious to the established and agreed-upon nature of the galaxy, and for some incomprehensible reason, the sentient being upon which Yrell Aiene Tautom's existence is hinged allows her to behave rebelliously without restraint or exception.

Hence, the following that are featured in this narrative.
Relic, "A Twig My Brother Mistakenly Made."

It is said that the tech of the Çéi is indistinguishable from nature. That it is so streamlined, in fact, that it couldn't be anything Çéi-made, engineered or otherwise. Fact of the matter is, the entire world featured on Dyjian is carefully curated, groomed, adapted, and tweaked specific to the Çéi's liking and purpose.

A simple tree branch, therefore, is the perfect statement for the unassuming nature of a Çéi's hostility. That they would work on turning even the most innocent of things into sources of unwieldy destruction speaks to their underhanded, control-freakish, and two-faced nature.

The Twig that Vandlorr (Vandlorael) crafted was a rudimentary tool. It contained a single aspect of two things:

The form being predefined, the then-Téyig applied untapped energy to it. The results were good and unpredictable. How such a relic wound up featured in a nature museum in Konstaneah is a question that may never be answered. But, whether for display only purposes, or by the reckless insistence of Dyiij in her endless need to endanger others at all times, it did make a gnarly display piece.
The Hubris of Eyes.

On Earth, it is said that 'the eyes are the windows into the soul' — Dyjian couldn't agree more, although that statement is a little backwards and misdirected. Irises are of significance, not just for their beauty and pattern and color, but also for what they're capable of doing to the outside world.

Of all shades of color to come with a pair of irises, there's none more mysterious and dreaded than the white variants. Yet, in this narrative, there emerged one pair that superseded these, in the sense of terror and effect and mystery and covetousness.

The first, whether likened to milk, clouds, tawny creme, snow, or pearls — and anything else known as white — is the only type of iris with the ability to exert an uncanny influence on the beholder, that occurs naturally in Dyjian's genetic pools. Its happening is contingent entirely on the will of the bearer, making it whimsical in execution.

This, of course, has led to a lasting superstition amid all intellectual creatures roaming Dyjian. That to succeed in retaining one's individuality and will when being seduced by a white gaze, one has to first pluck the eyes from their sockets, and swallow them without breaking them. It places the power in the subject's being, where it's believed to be absorbed by the body, undoing the unnatural coercion that the person was subjected to. Truthfully, eyes are a delicacy on Dyjian.

Like the white variants, though not naturally obtained, are the irises of gold that are reserved for the Ambassadors of the Alyi.
A Thought, or Several –

Thank you for reading The Elegy of Fate.

This has been a roller coaster of emotions and labor from first draft to repub, and I hope it's finally in a state where I'm satisfied with it. The previous set of people who advised me on what to do with this novel, in writing it, editing it, etc, didn't do it justice. It wasn't until after its sequel, The Kingdom of Ecstasy, was published that someone took the time to show me the glaring issues it still had. But then I sat on it, despite having wanted to redo this damned story for years. I sat still on it because, as other tales were progressing, overhauling it to fit the lore and terminology was going to be a nightmare. I couldn't do it alone.

May have taken me forever, but I did thoroughly enjoy coming back to this. Finally, it's done. Not to perfection, but it feels right. I'm good with that, and I think you will be too.

That said, I wish this to be a story that you enjoy. If you don't, that's fine. If you do, I invite you to reach out to me with whatever comes across your mind, what your experience reading this was like, and if you have any questions related to the story and its surrounding lore you'd like to see an answer to. Be nice to hear something from someone new.

You'll find me at SRLaubie@gmail.com – I'm always writing; I'm always here.

If you'd like to show your support, please add me as one of your favorite authors, or leave me a review, or follow me on Twitter @SRLauby.

Sincerely,

Shiri R. Laubrea

Oh, an update:

  * _The Kingdom of Ecstasy_ is undergoing similar treatment, revisions, covers, etc.

  * The third installment of the series, _The Rapture of Secrets,_ was completely scrapped and is being overhauled. How-some-ever... there is a book being written ahead of it, _Bog Fodder,_ placing TRoS somewhere in a formless void for now.

Things are getting done. Just not at the speed of light. Hang close. We'll get there.
