1:30
The sky—cerulean, scattered with clouds like unmelted marshmallows drifting above a sun that never quite scorched.
Simply plains of grass, flowers nodding under the sun, their petals kissed by the wind.
The warmth was peculiar.
"Why'd you bring me here?"
"No one comes here." She crouched, plucking a yellow petal from a flower and rubbing it between her fingers.
"It's quiet. Full of flowers."
I crouched beside her, gazing out over the plains—gardens of Eden, stirring cruel memories best left ignored. The grass shifted like slow-moving gorges.
"On the horizon, the city skyline is frozen. But here—it's sunny, with only a thin fog creeping at the horizon."
She shrugged, then smiled softly, turning to me like a mother. "Every time you see fire, you flinch. Why?"
"It catches me off guard."
She stood, looking down at me as I fiddled with the flowers.
"You hardly look me in the eyes when I speak."
"No reason to."
She lowered herself to my level—crouching, then sitting, then finally lying back on the blades of grass. A blur of her image lingered in the corner of my eye.
"Tell me, what happened? Why do you fear fire so much?"
I narrowed my eyes, jaw tightening. I swallowed hard, saliva stuck, blinking repetitively.
"Actually, don't worry. I'll show you what we came here for."
"Alright."
The rustling of paper caught my attention, the breeze teasing the pages with a crackling sound. I looked at what she held—a moderately thick book with frayed pages.
As she flicked through, she spoke softly, "I used to practice here when I was younger."
I turned back to the distance, vacant. A blank stare.
"I'm happy I now have a friend to show it to."
"Pardon?"
She didn't answer, just kept flipping pages, licking her finger after each turn. It was almost comical. Her pale hair fell before her face with every flip, and she pushed it back.
"The Requiem," I said, looking into her eyes.
"What is it?" I continued.
She looked upward, eyes drifting toward the sky.
"Illusion, Fire, Silence, Memory, Death, Flesh, and Dissonance."
I tilted my head. I'd heard the names before.
"That church—the qualities of the Emperor."
She turned to face me. "You've heard of it?"
"What is it?"
"Well, I'll start with the basics… Everything has a true name. You, me—even concepts. True names are writ upon our souls in the ancient language. Our souls are malleable, like the body—both can be shaped. But what governs the soul is the name writ upon it."
"Souls?" I said, confused.
"Imagine a book. The body is the cover, holding the soul—the paper inside. The true name writ upon it are the words within the pages. A book's worth is measured by its words. What if I told you true names have power? And that power is called Authority."
I plucked a flower from the ground, stem still rooted.
She looked at me longingly.
"If your true name is strong enough… does that give me authority over other true names?"
She nodded. "Names are intrinsic. Unlike body and soul, which can be molded, names cannot be changed or destroyed. To destroy a name is to destroy the concept itself. And nothing can be created."
"And nothing can be destroyed," I finished.
"That's the First Law of The Requiem."
"Isn't that limiting? If true names are intrinsic, your authority is set in stone."
"Yes. Which is why not everyone can wield The Requiem."
She smiled. "If you ask me, The Requiem is a power based on delusion."
"Why?"
"Since true names govern personality, if my personality is delusional enough, it reshapes my true name. Authority is man-made. No one truly has authority over another. But if you believe you do… then you do. And since true names are intrinsic, this delusion is built in, I suppose."
She continued flipping pages. "The Second Law of The Requiem—the price of understanding. Pretium Intellectus—the true name of the concept."
"These laws… can't they be manipulated?"
"That's the price of understanding. For one, your name must have authority over the other in the first place. But say your name does. The Price of Understanding states: power must be proportional to knowledge."
"What that means is, if your true name has authority over another, but you don't understand the concept, there will be a price or consequence—depending on the authority of the name you try to manipulate. If you do understand a concept with high authority, it will consume and subjugate you."
"Why doesn't this apply to scientists then?"
"Their understanding isn't deep enough. They haven't truly grasped it."
I nodded. "So, the prerequisites to use a true name: first, know the true name; second, have authority to use it; third, understand it."
She nodded, then sighed.
"Quite the explanation. You're smarter than you look,"
I squinted my eyes somewhat sceptical. The requiem has its limits it seems. If it hadn't any laws it would be in theory. Omnipotent. But what if–What if I had the authority to discard those laws.
"The seven names I mentioned, they are separate parts of the requiem. I'll show you." She said pointing at it inside her book
Illusion — Perception, deception, reality manipulation
Ignition — Energy, transformation, destruction
Silence — Stillness, concealment, absence of sound or thought
Remembrance — Time, history, knowledge preservation
Mortality — Endings, cycles, inevitability
Corpus — Body, physicality, vulnerability
Discord— Conflict, chaos, disruption
I scrutinised each one. The title of them was, 'Ars de rites.' In other words, art of the last rites. They are purposefully broad because for each one they have multiple branches. For example, mortality has the branch of order. Corpus allows necromancy, however also allows surgery. Possibly even immortality. Ignition allows fire, but equally allows light and energy.
And life?
"They stand out more as intrinsic properties of everything." I murmured in awe
"That's what it is. It is everything."
In the distance I could hear birds chirping sporadically. The atmosphere was serene. It was a peace I wish would last and endure. A connection I'd longed for. A friend.
I smiled to myself, almost guiltily as I saw her watching me at the corner of my eye. Also smiling.
"Why use fire?" I asked
"It's the easiest to understand." she said handing me the book
"We practitioners of the requiem are cantors, choristers in Meridian culture."
"Become one." She muttered
I nodded, pressing my hand against the grass as it scrunched beneath it.
In some way. Somehow everything is connected. Everything has a name, down to the grass I stand upon. Only that I have a greater authority. I realise that the name shapes your soul and personality, and the authority of your soul produces you. It's why a fly has less authority than me.
And yet I am still no different from a fly.
Her voice echoed in my head then faded. My head became slowly filled with a lullaby. It was a warm unfamiliar feeling. Like a hug. I closed my eyes, The warms of the plains a furnace to the soul. The book was heavy and yet light in my hands.
And slowly my heart beat became synced with the lullaby, like drums to accompany it. Wind brushed past my hair and fingertips, The song sifting along with it. I slowly opened my eyes. The notes, the words, the names, written in ink upon the air.
The lullaby, a frequency coming from everyone's soul, it connects everyone and everything. From a fly to a man. The lullaby isn't just music, it's the sound of a trillion names bundled together into a symphony.
And from my heart, where my soul lies. I could feel it. The ember coaxing my name awake. Calling for it to wake up.
Deciduous leaves took coarse stalling in the air, swaying with senescence with every glide and fold, aging it away. Falling with grace, susurrus whispers sifted and sashayed along its winding path around me.
I looked deep into the book. One of Ilya's failed attempts, a tornado.
I muttered the words from the book, "Cal-ur? Ca-lar."
I jolted back reflexively. Heat ignited in low scarlet orange sparks. The leaves coiled into an atramentous powder, like paper being crushed into itself and rustling. The temperature spiked, shooting out fireflies. A thermal vent rose upward.
"Ventus."
The change was sudden. Cool air circumvented around me, while I could feel the hot air rising in a clash of temperatures. An updraft rose with dust, ash, leaves, and flame. Sparks ping-ponged from the walls of the vortex, slithering along the turbulent flow. And I stood in the middle of the spectacle, fearful of my own creation yet beaming synonymously.
"Flamma."
And I saw a sight: a vast and open emptiness, a plain not of blades of grass and monoliths of trees, but of blades of to-be's and what's not to be.
And I saw it.
A monolith — wide, jagged, impossibly tall. Not placed, but left.
Its surface wasn't smooth. It was cracked, like dried skin or old stone torn open by heat. The letters weren't carved. They'd been burned in.
PRIDE.
Beneath it:
Jupiter.
And beneath that was a name beckoning me to unveil it's splendor. A name behind a lock sealed with chains.
The lock stared back at me — not loud, not demanding — but absolute.
Chains wrapped around the stone, thick and blackened like they'd been forged in fire. They weren't wrapped onto the monolith. They grew from it, like veins. Like roots.
At the centre, where all the chains converged, was that single lock. No rust. Just silence. A keyhole that looked… waiting.
And something inside me shifted.
I felt watched. Not from above, not around — from within. Like a memory pressing its face to glass.
Behind me, the air spun wild. Fire twisted upward in frenzy, leaves scattering in ash. But here, the ground was still. Silent.
And in that silence, I heard a voice. Not out loud. Somewhere deeper.
Not your name.
Not yet.
I didn't move. I didn't dare.
Something old had seen me. And it remembered.
Take sight, Seventh flame: Saint born in ashes.
A sudden spike in heat sent the air spiraling with renewed intensity. Hot air rose, cold air subducting under it. Not just a vortex, but a large firestorm. The rapidly rotating column turned from monochrome to renewed, with a new undying life surging upwards until it turned to small sparks of ash and char. Gone.
I knew, it wasn't about what you saw. It was about what you didn't.
Ilya turned to look at me. Her eyes widened in shock, a glint of flame caught in her eyes—both from the reflection and from her own joy. Though she hid her shock well, her smile spoke volumes.
"That wasn't beginner's magic," she said softly. Her smile held — but her eyes studied me, searching for something she hadn't expected to find.
She clapped slowly. "Ventus." The burning blades of grass dispersed into ash.
"Impressive," she said, continuing to clap.
"Congrats. You are now a cantor."
He was no mage. No soldier. Just a Cantor — one who sang to the bones of the world, and the world sang back.
I smiled exuberantly, gleeful from crown to toe with my pride. My legs and hands were shaky, it'd been the first time I'd been happy in days. Though...
"I don't like fire."
Not because it failed.
But because it remembered too much. The woman who burned to the stake.