Day 179, Month Verdantis, Year 12123, Era Elyndris — Vespers
Thirtos, Burness, and Cerva — Market Squares and Alley Courts
Despite the promises of the Codex Reclaimare, it had only stoked the fires of discord. Each line seemed to provoke new arguments among the restless crowd.
Underneath tattered banners, the masses surged like a restless tide. Merchants hurried to close their stalls, the urgent toll of prayer bells mingling with the passionate chants that erupted from every corner. Handwritten scraps of the codex, ink glistening with hope, passed from palm to palm, their margins cluttered with desperate oaths and murmured rumors. A mason in Thirtos read fervently by the flickering light of a torch, his jaw set tight with concentration. In Burness, a seamstress clutched a precious scrap close to her heart, kissing it reverently as if it were a cherished relic returned from the dead. Meanwhile, in Cerva, a young boy held a sheet of parchment at arm's length, as though it burned with some dreadful truth.
A line of soldiers came to a halt at a barricade that divided the street. They lifted their shields in unison, their breaths held tightly as tension crackled in the air. On the far side, villagers and guildsmen stood shoulder to shoulder, resolute beneath the sigil of the Fourth Pillar. The sergeant, with a commanding presence, raised two fingers to signal his men to pause.
"Hold!" he called out, his voice steady and clear enough for his rank to hear. "We're here to maintain order, not ignite a conflict."
From the throng, a woman stepped forward, her hands open and empty, yet filled with resolve. "Order does not equate to silence," she challenged, her voice slicing through the murmur of the crowd.
There was no rush to fists; no one stepped back. The street remained poised in a delicate balance, each breath drawn in anticipation as time seemed to suspend itself.
Above them, the very fabric of magic trembled with unrest. Wards flickered uncertainly, and compulsion sigils sputtered sporadically, failing in their duty. In Burness, the Moon Bridge vanished with the midnight hour, only to return—twisted and gnarled like an ancient beast—into a tortuous maze that expelled a company of guards into the dense fog of yesteryear. In Cerva, the founder's statue bled a slow, viscous stream of black oil, glistening like a dark wound. Priests stood vigilant under flickering lanterns, their hushed voices weaving quiet arguments at the statue's base.
"This is surely a curse," one priest remarked, his brow furrowed in concern.
"No, it is a mercy," countered another, shaking his head with a certainty that felt unsettling.
"You cannot claim to know either way," chimed in the youngest among them, his eyes rimmed with tears as he hastily wiped them away, longing for clarity.
Meanwhile, a tavern door creaked open, releasing a tide of whispers and laughter. A brewer leaned over a sticky table, sliding a folded page across it with a flicker of urgency. "Three copies made," he said, glancing around nervously. "Two runners dispatched."
"Excellent," the librarian replied, keeping her hood drawn low to obscure her features. "We shall need five more. Alter a sigil on each."
"For tracking them?" he asked, his voice tinged with apprehension.
"For our survival," she answered, her tone leaving no room for further questions.
Orders from Aetherium Castle arrived late, tangled in confusion as they crossed paths in transit. Arrest lists met fierce refusals; warrants crumpled in the fists of those who had penned them. Minor officers remained silent, some ceased their reports altogether. A few sought refuge in cellars, raising tankards to toast their old enemies, while others rode through the city gates at twilight, never once casting a glance behind.
A boy woke, his small form trembling upon a pallet in Thirtos. "My mother's name," he gasped between sobs, "I—there isn't one." His aunt, seated beside him, rubbed gentle circles on his back, whispering soft lies—those tender fictions that the world had left at her disposal.
The city did not shatter into pieces; rather, it unraveled slowly, thread by thread, as if its very essence was wearing thin.
A question found its way into every tongue, the words shifting yet forever burdened by the same ache: if even the guardians of truth refused to take a stand, what then remained for the heart to trust?
Day 179, Month Verdantis, Year 12123, Era Elyndris — Night Watch
Beneath the Veil — Between Currents and Names
Laughter echoed first—oily and self-satisfied. It slithered along the seams of existence as a blade glides beneath the skin.
Beelzebub surveyed the cities from those places lost to cartographers. The Eighth Stomach: Gluttony of Remembrance had indulged enough, though it had not tasted deeply. Too many anchors had slipped away. Too much of the world had suddenly learned to doubt, all at once, like an awakening from a long, troubled slumber.
"Very well," she replied, her voice steady yet laced with an undercurrent of tension. The word unfurled like ripples across a still pond, plunging into a dozen nightmares. Fitran's presence lingered in her mind, a flicker of warmth amidst the cold darkness surrounding her. He was a light she had dared to keep hidden, a delicate secret nestled within the depths of her being. Each encounter with him gnawed at her restraint, the longing simmering beneath her stoic facade. She pressed her lips together, fighting an urge to reveal the depth of her affections, knowing full well how fragile such emotions were in their world.
In Burness, Lady Aurianne awoke abruptly, the cold rope already binding her throat, a faceless throng stirring restlessly beneath the scaffold. With a sudden jolt, she sat upright, drenched in sweat, her heart racing with primal terror. Her steward discovered her at the window as dawn endeavored to disperse the lingering mist.
"Make a list," she commanded, her tone low and measured. "Do so discreetly."
"Of whom, my lady?" he inquired, brow furrowing in concern.
"Of anyone who has spoken on behalf of the Fourth Pillar."
He hesitated, weighing his words. "That would encompass nearly half the quarter."
"Then start with those unaligned," she instructed curtly, and with a resolute flick of her wrist, she closed the shutters, shutting out the dim light.
Across in Thirtos, a cobbler froze at his bench, hands trembling over his wares. A vivid memory washed over him with striking clarity: his beloved wife, radiant and full of life, laughing as she spun gracefully in the sun. When he endeavored to trace the recollection to the sorrowful day of her burial, the path beneath him faded, leaving him suspended in grief.
Beelzebub twisted her influence into a profound cruelty. "Hope, you see, can mislead far more effectively than fear," she mused to herself, letting the weight of her words linger in the air. Fitran's face flashed in her mind, the way he bravely faced darkness. She felt an ache, a longing masked by her dark intentions—she could not afford to waver. Yet how she desired to reach out to him, to share the warmth of a fleeting smile that had so often eluded her. Clinging to the shadows of her heart, she whispered, "Ah, dear Fitran, if only you could see what resides within me, perhaps you would understand that my heart is as unyielding as it is hopeful, even amidst the ruins we dwell in."
The Ninth Stomach: Feast of False Dawns unfurled before her like an intricately woven tapestry. It did not consume what had come before; rather, it painted vivid images of what lay ahead—victories polished and sterile, peace bartered without cost, futures that demanded only one more betrayal. Dreams infiltrated the minds of sleepers and those who wandered through wakefulness.
She unveiled the city before a captain, its stillness cradled beneath a single banner. To a monk, she revealed the promise of peace, should one name be erased from existence. A mother beheld her child—grown and safe—if only she uttered the single falsehood that would cause a neighbor to vanish by dawn's light. Finally, she presented them with the sight of Fitran, leading a radiant host, the Codex raised high… then, with a deliberate motion, she lifted the mask from Fitran's face, unveiling the abyss that lay beneath. The throng of followers stepped forward, their mouths agape, marching into an emptiness that none could grasp.
"Do you see?" Beelzebub remarked, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. "Even the finest tales guide you to this inevitable end." Yet, beneath her calculated exterior, a flicker of longing kindled in the shadows of her heart, a whisper she dared not voice, for Fitran stood as both the light she adored and the horizon she could never reach.
The dreams spread quietly, like whispers in the wind. Schemes coalesced around them, gathering strength like dry tinder awaiting a spark.
With a flick of her wrist, Beelzebub cast two more blades. The Third Stomach: Feast of False Dawn coated the air with a soft, golden hue, lulling the cautious into a false sense of agreement; meanwhile, the Fifth Stomach: Devouring Horizon beckoned with the enticing promise of swift closure. Both were mere fragments, tantalizing glimpses of what was to come. The full tapestry of deceit would demand patience to weave.
She remained unhurried. Let panic be the delicate touch that would sculpt their fate.
Day 179, Month Verdantis, Year 12123, Era Elyndris — After Compline
Tower of Babylon — Hall of Stars
The Hall of Stars stood silent, absorbing every rising voice without a whisper of echo. The dome enveloped sound, folding it gently like a scribe caressing a precious letter. Above them, constellations meandered over a brilliant tapestry of glass and crystal, while below, a scrying pool revealed the world's story through gleaming inks of light and shadow.
Avernon's hand moved in a deliberate circle, cutting through the stillness. "Order is beginning to fray," she remarked, her tone grave. "Should we allow this fate to burrow deep, the world may unravel. Shape is not merely a luxury we can afford."
Kaehra remained poised, her hands clasped behind her back, a picture of calm determination. "Every epoch has its trials," she mused softly. "We have often intervened too soon. We have too frequently named the forthcoming shape as an act of mercy."
Molun, pacing the rim of the pool, felt the shadows tighten around him like a shroud. "If the void is left to spread unbridled, what then?" he questioned, his voice laced with urgency. "A world devoid of memory does not languish; it forgets how to find its end. That is not mercy—it is a plague."
Lirael observed the cities as they flickered across the surface of the pool—Thirtos appeared like a bruised bloom, Burness dwindled like smoke caught in a breeze, and Cerva stood firm and radiant with fervent prayers. "The ancient contract relies on witnesses," she noted, a hint of sadness threading her words. "Yet now the witness shuns the chair. Fitran remains apart, his emptiness a wall against my designs. It defies us. It defies the Codex. The very border itself possesses a will of its own."
Avernon's brow furrowed, a shadow crossing his features. "To erase the border is to banish the void along with it," he cautioned, the weight of his concern evident.
Kaehra turned, her voice cutting through the stillness. "To destroy the border is to sever meaning itself," she proclaimed, her tone sharper than before. "A tale stripped of its boundaries is like paint without a canvas. She remains the one domain Beelzebub cannot taint. She tests each of us: can we summon hope that stands upright without leaning on a savior or the looming threat of a system?"
Lirael's expression softened, as if a deeper understanding was dawning within her. "Then we must do what our founders dared not," she replied, her tone unwavering. "We shall wait for the world to make its choice. We must document. If a new law is to rise, let it be born of merit."
"A line must be drawn," Molun asserted, his voice resolute.
"It has been drawn," Lirael countered, her gaze unwavering. "But we are not that line."
Avernon let out a weary sigh, lowering his hand as if relinquishing a great weight. "Very well," he conceded, the resignation clear in his demeanor.
They carefully wove quiet spells over the enchanting pool—charms of record, of witness, and of the gentle mercy that returns a lost page to the hand that once held it. No decree was issued from the Tower. No heralds galloped through the dusk. The Hall of Stars dimmed into the embrace of night.
Day 179, Month Verdantis, Year 12123, Era Elyndris — Cockcrow
Northern Rim, Fifth Sea — The Willow and the Shingle
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of salt and retreating to reveal the earthy aroma of peat and leaf-mould where the cliff trail meandered down to a narrow strand. The willow bent gracefully over the water, its long green tendrils tousled by the tide. Its roots clutched both bones and stones with the tenacity of a guardian.
Fitran ambled along the shingle with a relaxed gait, neither a wayward traveler nor a watchful sentinel. The sea heaved and subsided around him, its embrace both fierce and gentle. The very air was thick with the flavor of iron, hints of smoke, and the remnants of damp ash. He did not reach for it; rather, he allowed it to draw nearer.
A fisherman loitered upon the rocks, a net coiled at his feet, silent in his watch. He made no sound to break the tranquil air. Nearby, a dog cocked its head, ear twitching at the slightest of sounds, before settling back down with its chin resting comfortably on its paws. Farther inland, the echoes of bells tolling the hour resonated through the night, marking the cadence of a city embroiled in argument with its own shadows.
Fitran stood still beneath the curling branches of the willow, where water lapped gently at his boots. Hopeful currents stirred as a voice—soft and airy, like a reed flute played in secret—reached him.
"You're not gone," the girl uttered, her gaze steady, searching his eyes. "I remember you." There was something in her tone, a depth of feeling unspoken yet present, curling in the air between them like the mist fogging the night. She stepped closer, allowing the shadows to wrap around her, drawing him in with promises unvoiced. "You linger in my thoughts, even when you seem lost to the world. Can't you feel it?"
He did not scour the riverbank for her presence; memory harbored its own shelters. A smile curled upon his lips, only to dissipate like fog under the morning sun.
Beelzebub's magic pressed upon him with the force of a relentless tide against an unyielding pillar. The Eighth Stomach tugged at the frayed threads of his existence, while the First Stomach: Anamnesis Devourer maneuvered in to strip his purpose bare. The Ninth began to outline potential futures around him, exuding confidence like a cunning thief weaving through a busy marketplace. Yet, none of it anchored him.
"You may feast upon names," she declared, her voice steady, "but you cannot savor nothingness."
The sea stilled, if only for the briefest moment. He knelt, extending his hand toward the water's surface.
It neither flared nor sang; rather, it accepted the weight of his palm with a gentle familiarity, as if learning its shape. No oath slipped from his lips. No banishment rang forth. The border performed what a border is meant to do. It held steadfast, unyielding.
A woman in Burness carefully folded a list of purges, her hands trembling, and cast it into the fire before the steward could raise a hand to knock. Meanwhile, a captain in Thirtos swiftly redirected a squad from their sentry post, sending them to stand between two rival crowds instead. A mother in Cerva pressed her palm against her neighbor's door, choosing to wait until dawn before spinning a web of lies.
None among them understood why the decision had twisted within their chests. They breathed, letting the moment pass in stillness.
Lirael turned away from the scrying pool, swiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Record it," she urged softly. "Not the miracle. Capture the pause."
In realms uncharted by maps, Beelzebub bared her teeth at the void, a flicker of longing threading through her voice. "Witness and border," she proclaimed, the words heavy with unspoken weight. "You shall discover the final of my mouths." In her mind, Fitran lingered, a specter haunting her thoughts, igniting a fire she struggled to suppress.
The horizon rippled like fabric across the sky. She lifted both hands high.
Seventh Stomach: Archive of Husked Futures. Unused pathways cracked open and flooded forth—visions of cities preserved because cruel deeds were enacted in the present, of children who were saved through betrayals set in motion today. The scenes entwined themselves around the minds of the chosen, imbued with a deep, unsettling sense of rightness.
Ninth Stomach: Feast of False Dawns roared to life. Warm light bathed the edges of thought, offering solace where the day had promised none.
Fitran raised his gaze. The light met the border and shimmered, shifting its hue. It did not shatter; rather, it leaned and flowed, gliding around the stone like water.
She felt no need to utter a counter-spell. Inside her, not a single part agreed to become the seed of that lie. Instead, a yearning stirred within her, a silent rebellion against the darkness that sought to consume her heart.
She spoke softly, her voice barely rising above the rustling leaves, honoring the shore, the weary fishers, and the ancient bones resting beneath the willow tree. "If it is a savior you seek, turn your gaze elsewhere. If it is a judge you desire, I shan't assume that role. But if you wish for a witness—someone to hold the silence when words falter—I am here."
The dog's ears perked up, catching the faintest whisper of her words. The fisherman released a breath he had not realized he was holding.
The light of the Codex flickered and steadied, casting its glow over a dozen cities below. Not brighter, but truer. The Moon Bridge in Burness drew inward, forming a clear, singular arch. The statue of the founder in Cerva halted its weeping, standing still with narrowed eyes, straining to listen intently.
In a cluttered corner of a letter-strewn desk, Lady Aurianne sat with her hands folded in her lap, empty yet poised. She neither rang for the steward nor called back the list that the flames had devoured. Dawn crept in, a thin sliver of light seeping around the edges of the shutter. She pressed her fingertips to her brow, lost in thought, choosing silence instead of words.
In a dimly lit basement beneath Thirtos, a pair of boys labored over the worn pages of the codex, attempting to erase a threatening note scrawled in the margin by an eager cousin. "We leave the law as it stands," said the older boy resolutely. "We are not gods."
"Are you certain?" the younger one queried, a hint of doubt in his voice.
"Not in the least," she replied, a wry smile touching her lips, devoid of humor. "Which is precisely why it endures."
The world did not mend itself. It braced itself for what was to come.
Beelzebub snarled, her voice a low growl, as she summoned the Fifth Stomach: Devouring Horizon—a vast wall of false destiny aimed to engulf both sky and shore. The tide surged forth like a relentless decree. Underneath the harsh mask she wore, emotions tangled—love and longing for Fitran, a feeling she dared not voice. What foolishness it was to harbor such warmth for one so distant, so entwined in the mess of fate. Yet, the pull was undeniable, like the tides that clawed at the shore, reminding her of what she could not claim.
The beach lay still, a silent observer to what transpired. The wave crashed against emptiness, unable to find a name for its defeat.
Farther inland, the bells rang out for Prime. Tendrils of smoke twisted slowly from the cookfires. Children trudged to their tasks, their voices rising in a chaotic symphony as they sang the wrong lines to a rhyme about queens. Within the Tower, Molun muttered to himself, "It cannot hold." Lirael offered no answer, lost in her own thoughts. Kaehra leaned in closer, her gaze tracing the faint outline the scrying pool had drawn around a stray strand of shore and a gnarled tree.
Fitran kept his hand immersed in the cool water until the ache in his arm transformed into a rhythmic throb. He finally stood when the sun clawed its way over the horizon, where sea and sky met in a fragile embrace.
She held back the urge to glance back at the tower perched precariously on the cliff's edge. Nor did she tear her gaze away from the distant capital that lay behind her. Instead, she treaded softly along the shingle until the willow became a mere smear against the horizon and the dog a distant dot. The world reached out to her anew, and she yielded to it willingly.
A bell tolled in the distance, its sound clear and deep. Perhaps it served as a warning. Perhaps it was a call to the passage of time. Or perhaps it encompassed both meanings.
A small, secretive smile played at the corners of her lips. Something had withstood the night, though not victory nor a prophecy realized. Merely the steadfast truth that a border had declared its defiance, and the day had lingered just long enough to take its first step.
The center had unraveled, yet it had found a way to breathe in the absence of what once was.