Of the Dragon, of the Stars Chapter 10: Year of the Rabbit: Tower of Light, a maple story fanfic

OMG it's actually done. I'm absolutely sorry for how long this chapter took to appear. The first draft finished close to 40k words, and it took me the whole of this week to cut it down to the length you see now.

I hope that, though this chapter definitely doesn't live up to the previous, you can enjoy this almost as much.

Anonymous comment replies

The Most Pro Mapler on Earth: I think I'll never catch up with Maple on their new jobs, at the rate they're appearing.

LOLcatz: Okay, that officially makes three people who have dreamt of Ketara before! (me included :DDD)

Ditto000: I'm not sure; I have a prequel for this story (which appeared back in the times when I was writing crap at the rate of 3,000 words a day), and I'm still debating with myself whether or not to post it.

Chapter 10: Year of the Rabbit/ Tower of Light

council of the deities

"This meeting has been called for the sake of an important decision that has to be made," announced the Goddess to the deities gathered, in the icy-white amphitheatre of heaven. At the touch of her voice, even the most disobedient deity was put to silence. "The chosen guild has arrived at the last part of the Spear, and they have done well. But the darkness has grown too, so much that I fear that they might not succeed. Thus, I have to propose a change in the plan—that we relieve them of the duty, and go in their place."

It was one of those questions that the Goddess knew would be objected to. And the first objection came a mere two seconds later. Gazes turned—it was Arelyn, servant-daughter of the Clock Spirit.

"Do you now doubt the plan that you believed so deeply in?" she asked. "Look at how many times they almost died for the sake of this quest! Will you now take it from them?"

A conversational buzz ascended from the audience almost immediately, the buzz of discussion that gradually expanded into the rumble of argument. Deities began to throw up suggestions—some likely, some horrible. Fists were raised, and bolts of light glowing in palms.

"We will gather and defeat the Spirit!"

"But the Goddess and the Dragon have lost almost all power, and the Clock Spirit will not fight. We cannot win."

"Then these humans will die, and the world will die with them!"

The stands were full of voices in assent. The arguing would have lasted hours, everyone knew, if not for the sense of some. From the first row, there was a rustle. The deity of hope had stood, and the sound of her movement sent another hush through the crowd. She gave a suggestion that put all thousand to utter silence.

"We can help them, can't we? It's not a tradition of the deities to help humans, but we have had to do it before. Why should tradition hold against the looming shadow of the Dark Spirit?"

Mouths opened, ready to rain protest, that the humans were none of their business, that there were better ways to save the world now that the Spear was finished—but the Goddess seemed pleased. And her palm struck the tabletop, a gesture that meant there would be no further argument. "Excellent suggestion. The humans may have fallen to sin, and we might have sworn them off. But they own the world just as much as we, and they have grown to own the power we have sadly lost. They might have darkened, but there is We can let them go on, but they will not go unassisted," she said. "If they call on us, we will be there to aid them. Especially you, Clock Spirit, and you, the Keepers of Time. Closed. Now, are there other matters—"

Before She finished, Kalia the Guardian of Time had risen from her seat. "That's enough!" she exclaimed, plunging straight into her speech. "There is no justice or mercy in Heaven! All we decide, we decide through votes like this!"

The restless voices rose in a swell around them. What is wrong with the Clock Spirit's children? Many were muttering among themselves. Does It not know how to educate them?

"For matters that we started, such as this, it is fine. But for matters that were never ours to start with, there is no justice. And yet no mercy! If a deformed child is born, we vote and kill him! If an important woman is destined for death, we vote and save her! What if they don't want us to choose?"

In the seconds that followed, everyone was silent. No one spoke, no one objected. Yet no one wanted to agree.

At length, the Clock Spirit intervened. "Guardian, it is not your place to speak in this way," It murmured.

A pause. "Yes, Master," she finally whispered, lowering herself back into her seat. From then, her words were forgotten.

deina: loneliness

While the meeting was in progress in the theatre of heaven, a solitary deity was locked in her perpetual guard shift. Alone in a chamber of her tower, Deina sat scraping rust from her halberd.

This was a world behind a mirror—a reflected version of Orbis Tower, turned on its head by light. Here, she had made her binding pledge of selfless service to the Goddess, to guard the Tower until the end of the world. Here she had been left, for centuries she no longer wanted to count.

But echoes of the minutes of her life before imprisonment continued to haunt her, all the time.

"Will you stand guard forever, my daughter?"

The guardian lowered her gaze to the tiles of the ceiling, sighing at the chandelier lying tangled on its side. "Until my world ends, and I with it," Deina whispered in reply—something she did day after day; a reminder, a charm.

But is this not injustice? I am weary and I have been dutiful. When will my reprieve come?

Allowing her unfinished job to fall to the ground, Deina strode to the window, climbing out of it and onto the balcony outside. She went to the edge and sat among the snowflakes. At the horizon, the grey peaks plunged into the blue like icebergs, wearing wreaths of grey cloud.

This world was beautiful in every right. Then why did she long to escape? A mirror levitated just beyond the balcony, the only doorway out of her world. She had tried to use it before—but it had only left her with burns on her fingers.

A sudden coldness passed over her heart.

It's because I'm lonely.

Hoping to chase the despair away, Deina sang a short tune—a melody she somehow remembered, despite never hearing music before:

I might dream and weave and sing

And then you might know everything

A minute later, the beat of wings heralded the arrival of Veriun, her black winged steed. The beast descended to her mistress' side, hooves clip-clopping on the marble stones. Deina smiled and rose to meet her.

"Sunrise is almost here," the guardian whispered, the smile hanging defiantly onto her lips, turning to the orange horizon. It was a horizon she had tried to visit before, trapped in an eternal, unrelenting blizzard. The ocean was the same, locked in sea-storm. Made to trap her.

The only way out now was down—to freefall through the sky, until she reached the other end. But Deina knew not what waited there; she feared she might never return.

Where does the snow go, when it falls into the sky?

Veriun whinnied, nuzzling her mistress' violet hair. She raised a hand to the horse's neck, brushing out her fur. "We'll go there one day, Veriun. On the day we're released, we'll see what's on the other side."

yunira: spring of communion

Circled by the autumn breeze high in the branches, Yunira was thinking about Raydan. Which was odd, seeing that the last time they had met had been four years ago. Four long years, and yet the burning impression of those amber eyes had refused to leave her. What could she say? He still amazed her. So ready to accept others for who they were.

Even me.

So she was a Spearman. And she wasn't an extraordinary girl—she had flame-red hair, and eyes greener than the canopies. She was dressed the way any ordinary teenager girl would dress—v-neck tee and old jeans—Nakamaki resting against the branch beside her.

She found herself sighing, without wanting to. It had been a long time—such an immeasurably long time, since she had wished him goodbye, and he had headed off into the morning. And how silly it was, too, to harbour any hopes of meeting him again! But Victoria Island was a small place, and King Caleix made it even smaller. Who knew? She might just meet the guy again…

A crackle of dry leaves far ahead awakened Yunira to her surroundings once more. There she spotted her guardian Hyrien walking towards her, sword in hand. "Thought I'd find you here," he murmured. She rose with a bright smile at the sight of her unspoken foster father, leaping from the crook of the branches. At his beckoning, they proceeded further into the forest, towards their secret drinking spring. Recently, there had been signs of a group of unknown creatures using the place as well. It was puzzling, for the footprints were clawed—and no clawed creature lived in this forest, as far as they knew. But it was no matter; the spring was to be shared.

"You're bothered by something," Yunira suddenly remarked. "You don't normally go to the spring before training."

The male warrior turned in surprise. "You sharp little thing," he murmured, his smile rapidly lost to the grey weight upon his head. "Pelinor just told me he's planning the king's assassination. His assassination. I mean—it's a good plan. But I've learnt to trust my instinct. And something about this bothers me. It's like we aren't meant to do this—"

It was at this moment that four flashes of black shot overhead, scattering leaves in their wake. Yunira leapt behind Hyrien with a shriek; the White Knight backed away—bumping straight into her, turning around.

"Dragons?" he murmured. As Yunira turned, she too saw the four reptilian figures, crouched low on the branches with brilliant yellow eyes. "I thought…they were extinct. How did they come to be here? Didn't they die out years ago…?"

"Strange," murmured Yunira, equally bewildered. "Why are you here?"

"Water," the first dragon cried. "We come to drink from the spring."

Yunira yelped, stepping away in shock. "It—talked," she gasped, and Hyrien gave her a look. "The dragon there! Didn't you hear it?" Certain from Hyrien's expression that he didn't believe her, she turned to the winged reptile. "Dragon? Did you speak to me?"

"Hello," the same dragon replied.

"Would you—come down here, please?"

"But is the one beside you a good person?"

It was as if a wall had been broken. The girl grinned, going on. "He's one of my closest friends!" she answered. And seeing her smile, all four dragons instantly leapt from the branches, landing with excited cries. Till then, Hyrien had been wearing disbelief. Now he looked even more disbelieving.

"Nice to meet you!" the Spearwoman exclaimed. "I am Yunira, and this here is Hyrien."

"I am Hterizl," the apparent leader replied. The girl nearly choked trying to repeat the name.

"Adrile," said the next, very succinctly.

"My name is Ileihran," the third added. Yunira echoed both names with some trouble.

"Yunira, Hyrien, I am Kiherhlarhoxp," the last introduced itself. This time, Yunira wisely chose not to pronounce it. "Would you be so kind as to allow us passage to your spring?"

"Of course!" the Spearwoman replied. "In fact, we should head there now."

All four dragons bowed, their scales and eyes glimmering in the golden streams of sunlight. "You are kind," murmured Hterizl. "I wish to meet you again."

"You will! We live in that white stone building close by here. Now let's go!"

The young Spearwoman gave a cry of joy and dashed ahead of the White Knight, laughing. Hyrien gave a call of surprise, giving hurried chase. Overhead, there was the sound of wings unfurling in the wind—and four shadows slipped through the branches above them, swifter than arrows.

lanoré: hometown

"So, the Neck," Lanoré murmured, taking the round object from Ralinn and turning it in her fingers. While the ten members of Orion's Belt carried on with their own private conversations among themselves, Lanoré smiled to herself. She had only just won the most satisfying victory of her life, in her very own hometown.

Hometown…

Occasionally, Lanoré found her thoughts being directed back to her lowly past by the strangest of things. And it was happening right now, now as she watched the mountains drift further and further…

A soft bun warming her hands, as the rhythmic knock of a hammer on wood—leather between—saturated the frigid evening air. The gentle, homely smell of tanned leather and wood shavings; brown, brown, so much brown. Brown of the earth, though the world was all snow outside. Brown, of poverty, and of the hearth, and of the woods. And so warm, so warm.

Lanoré sighed as her heart was reclaimed by the memory. She watched as the windows streamed with afternoon gold, the grilles silhouettes in the dust. She watched as her father hammered the sole onto another boot, and her mother arrived with a dish of cookies.

"Don't you think that's enough work for today?" she exclaimed, sitting down on the stool beside the pair—Lanoré, and her father Heliodor.

"Exactly, Father—when will you finish your work?"

Disgusting…you seem so sure that they are happy!

Glancing back at the round object in her fingers, the Archmage felt her heartbeat rise with surprised anger. All at once, she began to feel the darkness seep down from the edges of her vision, like running ink—she blinked, turning her gaze abruptly from the cursed item in her hand.

The more attention I pay to it, the more it will anger me, she warned herself. That's what it wants.

She could already feel the dark veins of doubt and spite tangling themselves with hers. But she had to protect the rest.

preludes

In the sun, the stones seemed to glow as if they had been imbued with magic. Yet again, it was possible—for the Goddess herself had built Orbis Tower, stone by stone, in those early times when humanity had only been a figment of the Dragon's vast imagination. Everyone in Orion's Belt spent extra time wandering down the streets, taking in the gorgeous scenery.

"No sightseeing!" yelled the guild leader.

Towards the inn they eventually proceeded, down a staircase at the edge of the city into a network of corridors. The guild waited at the counter of the lobby as the receptionist took Ralinn's order, showing much annoyance when she requested ten rooms—though it pretty much vanished when Ketara smiled at her and said a short "thank you".

"There he goes again,"she murmured, almost bored.

"Tell us why we're here already!"

Ralinn had called a meeting in her room at two-thirty in the afternoon. The rest, all of whom had either gone for a sightseeing trip or lunch, had begun to trickle in around one-thirty—Zethis and Ketara colonizing her mattress for match cards, Clynine proceeding to do her hair at the dressing table—and eventually, everyone else, each with their own personal entertainment.

The latest to arrive was, as always, Raydan. And the instant he turned up at the door, Akera finally lost patience.

Recently, the Mage had been growing very touchy. Especially around the guild leader. One could tell quite plainly why this was so—and it couldn't be a good sign for the guild.

When Akera was angry, everyone was at stake. Look what she did last time she lost her temper. I'm surprised Turino survived.

"Crap, why do we have a slow, dumb leader like you?" she exclaimed, when no apparent progress was made.

Ketara and Raydan went silent, sweeping their cards away. Ralinn's mouth opened in utter shock. "Why are you so rude?" spat the guild leader back.

All Akera did in response was to roll her eyes. "Stay away, then," she answered venomously. "You can't change how I act, so change yourself."

Ralinn's mouth went even wider. "Why, you—"

"Akera!" Turino suddenly cut in from behind. "Don't do this, Akera." She turned to glare at him—but his dark gaze was steadier and stronger. Perhaps from the sense of obligation, the girl said no more, withdrawing to a corner.

"Alright," exclaimed Ralinn, resuming distractedly. "As I was trying to say just now—our quest only has to be completed by the end of the year, giving us five months. And if all we're doing is killing the king, then we have quite some time to spare. What I was thinking was that we ought to take a break—you guys deserve it."

Raydan leapt to his feet on the bed. "Finally, Linn talks sense!" he whooped. Ketara yelled and clapped, and his applause was quickly followed by that of the rest.

"So, so, so," the guild leader finally cut through the chatter, grinning widely. "Ready, guys? The one month break begins now. Dismissed!"

clynine: butterfly

In the gardens of Orbis, there stood a pair of mages. One was blonde and rather tall in comparison; the other was slight and some way from full adult height. The Cleric glanced up at her mistress' countenance in expectance—but there was nothing in her gaze that suggested what they were about to do.

"Clynine, are you ready for this?"

"I…think so."

"Well, you should be."

Suddenly worried, the Cleric fingered her gown. Where had Lanoré's encouragement vanished to? And now, of all times, when I need all the encouragement I can get…

For today, she was about to do what no Cleric had ever done before, in the history of magicians. Not that it wasn't a first for her. She had mastered every Bishop skill in the book, after all—every Bishop skill except one.

"So, Clynine," Lanoré resumed the lesson, voice tight and testy. "Tell me what you've learnt."

"I learnt how to summon souls," the Cleric echoed her book mechanically. Her eyes strayed to the butterfly flitting over her mistress' head, following its traipsing flight. "I learnt how to call them, and guide them—"

"Pay attention!" the Archmage snapped, the eyes flashing.

"—Y-yes, mistress Lanoré! I-I read about it…and I have learnt all that I must, mistress Lanoré!"

"Alright, then." The legendary magician now raised her gaze to follow Clynine's, and serenely, she snatched the careless butterfly from the wind. With a simple crackle of lightning from her fingers, it was dead, the scent of smoke faint in the breeze.

"So, are you ready to perform a Resurrection?"

The young Cleric glanced at the dead butterfly in her palm. Am I? She thought to herself, then realised that she would have to learn to do it someday. So she swallowed, and ran a preliminary check through her knowledge, the basics that would save her from any likely roadblock.

Some time in the last ten seconds, the creature's soul had fled from its body. Somewhere within, its motionless heart was longing to beat again. But not without its soul. The soul was gone, and the heart couldn't beat without it. Only she could call it back from its journey to heaven, reunite the two entities and bring the creature back to life.

This is the basis of Resurrection: convincing the soul to come home.

"Yes, mistress—I am."

"Then be hasty," warned the Archmage, her palm extending a little further. "The longer you wait, the more it will hurt."

The sound of Lanoré's voice made her leap—propelling her head-first into motion. She raised a hand, squeezing her eyes shut and extending projections of her magic everywhere. Rays of her influence soared outwards around her, searching the sky above, the ground beneath, imprints of the wind and the leaves forming pale patches behind her eyelids—

Until her consciousness suddenly chanced upon a struggling presence skimming the treetops.

Come, butterfly! Her heart screamed—and she staggered, for every syllable was like a dagger through her. But it was to no avail. The butterfly was still drifting away.

No, no…I'm leaving forever, it cried. Forever, love. Forever…

The young mage shook her head vehemently in reply, advancing, stretching an open palm in its direction. No, no— and she screamed again, falling back in utter unspeakable pain. Please—follow—

Something warm and sheer began to crack Clynine apart from inside—but still she called, steeling herself against the pain. Because she had to succeed, because this needlessly killed butterfly deserved to live again. Because her mistress was waiting.

You aren't where you think you are, she cried then. This isn't the joy you want, butterfly! There is only calm in heaven. But there's—there's love waiting for you here!

Here, in my hand…

…love, from the ones you left behind…

The crack grew wider, and in it, the butterfly soul cried. No one loves me! It grieved, dragging itself further. I was murdered because I was hated! Hated!

They don't hate you, butterfly. Your home, this garden, this world—it loves you more than that, more than you could think!

Clynine opened her mouth to reply—but it was like something tearing her body in two. It was like a waterfall, rising up through her ribcage, forcing itself through her throat. But she breathed anyway, and she forgot everything else. In, out. In, out.

Butterfly, dear butterfly…how can you say that? Too many in the world love you, need you. Without you, the flowers of Orbis cannot bloom. The city will die. Without you, dearest…

And it fell into sweet silence, a silence that made Clynine feel sad.

Is that…true? Must I? Do they really…love me?

And she felt the leaves and the light become one. One with the stones, the stars, the rain. Clynine began to weep because the butterfly was crying too, collapsing to the floor while the vast wings of light fell to the earth around her like the palest shroud in the world…

Breathe.

Her chest rose and fell once; her eyes opened, and she blinked. That was all she could do. Her mistress held her palm out, calm and motionless like the snows from which she had come.

In Lanoré's hand, the butterfly's powdery blue wings gave a small flutter. A second.

Then turning upon its side, it gave each wing a small shake and stood, fully-formed, as if it had just emerged from its cocoon, dazzled and astounded by this world all around…

…him. It's…a male.

There was silence, and within it, the Cleric finally collapsed. Like a petal, the butterfly rose from Lanoré's hand into the wind. Clynine sighed wearily, watching his frolicking path past the vine leaves.

"Thank you. The lesson for today is finished." The Archmage turned in a flutter of blue robes. Without even thinkingto offer half-unconscious Clynine assistance, she strode away.

ketara: not knowing

The corridor lights were dim, especially since he had just left a well-lit hotel room. Therefore he was not anticipating anyone appearing so soon, so suddenly, as he emerged through the doorway.

"Ketara. Don't you dare hurt my sister."

Ketara leapt at the sudden command behind him, hand still rested on the doorknob—until he turned to look.

"Oh, Turino! So glad to see you!" he answered, oblivious to the stone-cold stare that the dark-haired Mage's only visible eye now fixed him with.

"Don't hurt her," he snarled again, almost an enraged animal. Was this his old spirit, the one that had run rampant in the unforgiving deeps of the Dungeon? "She trusts you, alright? So don't abuse that!"

These words surprised Ketara, much as he knew them true. "But…Turino! You seem to love her so much, Turino! Why does she speak of you like you're a demon bent on hurting her? You…care so much, and yet—"

"Yet what? She doesn't care about me? Well, I don't need her care, alright?"

Turino must have expected Ketara to back away at his impassioned rant. For when the warrior stood his ground and smiled, he wasn't prepared for it.

"What is it, you happy idiot? No one but an idiot could be so happy—or someone who has never loved another enough before! Do you know, Ketara? Do you know how it feels to love another so much it hurts, only to have that love thrown back in your face and spit upon? If you knew, you wouldn't be smiling now!"

"I—"

But suddenly he, too, was silent.

He didn't know.

The closest he had ever come to real love had been Horned Tail, in a way deeper than could be explained. And though it had merely been for minutes, it had been the most painful time of his life—more painful, even, than all the battles he had fought before and after that day.

"You're right, Turino," he murmured. "I don't know this pain. But…you're hurt, more than you should be, Turino. There's something I don't understand. Why does she hate you so, when you love her?"

The Mage turned away, clenching his fists as if he wanted to destroy something, something that had survived all his relentless assaults so far. "Because love means nothing," he answered, hands closing around imaginary prison bars. "No, not to her. Love, for her, is something to take and never to give in return."

Then he flung his gaze back with terrifying suddenness, glaring up at the Dragon Knight. "And that's why you should leave her alone!" he added. "You'll only hurt yourself, Ketara! Stop wasting your time on her!"

Ketara barely bit back his terrifyingly impassioned retort. "B-but she's—she's a great person!" he insisted.

"Well, that's because you're the cheerful Dragon Knight who could charm a snake into a knot! Sooner or later, she's going to start seeing through it, and start treating you for what she shallowly knows to be. Male."

He turned away upon hearing this revelation. Something ached in his heart. Will it be that way, Lida?

"Um…Turino, could I ask what happened?"

"She hurt me, and that's all you need to know."

Silence was all that persisted, for all of five minutes. Ketara spent it pacing, and he wished, so wished, he could comprehend this. But all the while he knew that unless he found another to love this much—as much as this broken Mage before him—he never would and never could empathise.

"Sometimes, I wish I were you," mumbled the Mage, an admission. "You're closer to her than anyone else is—even me. Really…you know how she made an oath never to fall in love? You'll make her regret it."

"Oh, I—no, she wouldn't, would she?"

The warrior's heart swelled with—what? Hope? A dreg of belief, even…?

No, not that, I don't want it! She made me swear, and I will honour my word.

But there was this doubt in there somewhere, a doubt that made him feel as if there were an ocean beneath his feet. Did he really believe these words? Wasn't it true, that sometimes he looked at Telida and marvelled at how lucky he was to have met her?

He looked up, hoping to explain himself to Turino—but by then, somehow so soundlessly, the Fire Poison Mage had vanished.

akera: promise

Akera was meditating. Around her, the walls vanished gradually—the cushions, the curtains, the bed beneath her. Slowly the darkness peeled away, and she found herself enveloped in spiritual fire, pure fire that burnt her garments away and left her alone, bare, in a pool of molten light.

She breathed, once. The air around her was divinely hot, but something was strangely different this time—something perhaps triggered by her location, deep in the heart of Orbis. All too suddenly, she smelt the scent of incense and alcohol, and almost as fast her mind drew the association with the Clock Spirit.

And burnt petals, she thought, vaguely.

Sure enough, a face almost instantly surfaced from the pool beneath her, barely a grey shadow. "Akera," it whispered. But it wasn't the face of the Master of Fate that appeared—it was the deity's daughter, Arelyn. "Akera, ask."

And she knew at once that the Clock Spirit had something to give her—here, now, somehow. A promise that would be fulfilled in another time.

"Promise me," she whispered in reply. "Promise me that we will make it safely in and out of the Goddess' Tower." Ralinn hadn't told her of the last Spear part's location, but she had guessed it anyway. "Promise that the entire road will be safe."

Eyes closed beneath her. The light rippled gently, at shadow-Arelyn's returning breath.

"You have our word. Risk anything and everything—you will make it in and out, completely safe." And though her sceptical nature briefly led her to wonder if there were exploitable loopholes in these words, she found she could trust this voice that she knew was Arelyn's, a voice she had only ever heard speak wisdom before.

ralinn: malfunction

It was probably out of curiosity that Ralinn decided to abandon her responsibilities and search for the entrance to the Orbis Party Quest. Or maybe it was just the fact that she hadn't seen it, while the rest had experienced its wonders first-hand.

Jealousy, that's more like it. Jealousy. Like that know-it-all Akera who just can't keep any of her personal opinions the way they should be—personal!

Stupid!

She gave a short scream, clutching at her shirt, forgetting for moments the passers-by who had turned to watch her. It was only when tears spilt from her eyelids that she realised how silly she was being.

Leave me alone, Akera, she brooded. If you really want someone to bully with that horrible scheming brain of yours, pick my brother. Not me, and not for a reason I cannot change!

Then, slightly sadly: What's happened to you? You were just a girl back when we met you, a girl who hadn't tangled herself up with the dangers of love and hate. You were so much stranger then, and…so much more beautiful. Why do you fall to the same flaws as the rest of us?

Ralinn felt a breath of chilly wind on her face, suddenly. Without her notice, she had made it all the way to the wall at the edge of Orbis. Almost instantly she grew alert, glancing about for necromancers—

Oh wait, I'm safe, the guild leader realised, letting out a breath of relief. Again, she thanked the Goddess for reminding her not to take her bow along. How amazingly unbinding it felt, not having to travel with her defences up every step of the way.

The glass gate appeared in Ralinn's vision soon after. As she reached out to push it open, it surprised her that it wouldn't budge. Then she saw a neat little notice plastered flimsily to the upper bars, corners fluttering in the Orbis wind.

The Orbis Party Quest has been closed down indefinitely due to unforeseen malfunction.

an ocean song

"Clynine!" roared the Archmage. The young Cleric snapped to attention.

"Y-yes, yes, Mistress," she whispered, gulping back tears.

Sweeping her hand upwards, the woman's shot a clean lightning bolt at the passing doves flock—in a rain of thuds, they plummeted to the ground, feathers scattering across the pavements, staining themselves with dove blood. This isn't Lanoré! The brilliance in Clynine's eyes cried, as the creatures descended from glory like tainted angels, crunching into the gravel at her feet. This isn't her! This is a monster—

"Mistress!" she pleaded.

"If you value my companionship, then Resurrect them!" Lanoré bellowed in mad reply.

"I can't!" she exclaimed vehemently, collapsing to the gravel in a tangle of rose gowns. "T-twenty-one is too many, Mistress! I'll die! I-I'll…"

"You idiot girl!"

Next second, a face-full of bitter gravel. She tasted it—bitter yet salty, salty with the redness of the deadened feathers. She felt the redness on her lips. And Lanoré's shadow fell over her, a merciless tyrant with eyes blazing. "All these years, Clynine!" she cried. The Cleric pulled away, shaking. "Didn't you promise to follow my every order? Must a HUMAN die before you learn to perform a simple, pathetic Resurrect, Clynine?"

And the way she spat the name out—that was what broke her.

Suddenly, Clynine was rising to her full height—sobbing and shivering, clawing at her dirty dress with talon-like fingers. "Is this what you're like behind that veil of gentleness?"Already her mind knew that everything she was screaming was utterly wrong. But her heart was hurt, a splinter driven too deep inside.

"This is what you're like to your parents too, isn't it? Why else did you leave them to slog it out in their dingy little workshop at home, anyway? You thought they were SERVANTS! I'm not your assistant—I'm your SERVANT! I never asked for this!"

Lanoré's silence could have been pleasing. But there was no silence.

"Who was the one who wasn't there when her parents got taken away? Who took for granted that they'd fend for themselves without their daughter's help? Who just abandoned them, like old shoes she no longer needed?"

And that hit everything home. Brought everything whirling down, down, down through the sky like doves struck by lightning and left to die. The Cleric screamed.

"You evil hag! You aren't a heroine, no legendary heroine of El Nath. You're just an evil, horrible witch!"

And screaming still, Clynine raced away, down the marble roads of Orbis. And she never once looked back, back at the dead doves on the pathway, and at the mistress who had chosen to destroy her assistant's heart.

I was right, wasn't I?

The Archmage gave a cry of sheer despair, like a lost animal. In her pocket she knew, she knew that the Neck was glinting with malicious laughter, for its laughter now danced through the hollows of her mind.

No, no, no! This is a trick! She does listen! She is my assistant, and she trusts me—

Then what was that?

"Clynine, Clynine!" came a loud call from behind. With a snarl, she whirled around.

"Leave me alone!"

Behind her, Zethis reeled back. "I—I'm so sorry—"

With a small gasp of realisation, Clynine wiped the tears from her cheeks and turned, running towards him. "No, no, I'm sorry," she replied, gripping his fingers suddenly. "I'm so, so sorry. Something just happened…"

"With Lanoré?"

The girl gulped and nodded, and without asking, Zethis knew that she was struggling not to cry again. "Clynine…why don't we—er, talk?" the White Knight quickly said. Clynine nodded, and she spent about half a minute more sobbing, while Zethis desperately tried to decide on how to follow up his awkward invitation.

"Hey…Clynine," he whispered, hoping she had heard him. "Are you okay telling—I mean—can I ask…uh—no, I was just wondering if you, y'know, you t-trusted me enough to—"

The Cleric found the tiny strength to smile in reply, though her voice was shivery with tears. "It's—it's okay," she answered quickly. "Don't trouble yourself…What just happened is—I had an argument with her, and—I don't…don't get why…"

Zethis suddenly found that the sight his dear Cleric friend crying was enough to obliterate his nerves. "Clynine!" he gasped, hugging her. "Clynine…Clynine, you're hurt, and I wish it'd leave you—"

Without thought, without knowledge—he pulled her close and rested his head against hers, begging her to take courage. To realise that it didn't matter what Lanoré thought of her—for there were a hundred, a thousand others who would feel more and love more than that one hostile who hated.

And to his utter surprise, she abruptly stopped crying altogether, and began to laugh.

"Ticklish!" was her initial response, lively and so sweet it made Zethis blush. "But yes, Zethis…I believe you. I believe you more than I've ever believed anyone before."

"Oh…thanks, Clynine… Can we…go? You're—you're okay now, aren't you…?"

"I probably never will be. But yes, let's go back. Back, to where Lanoré is. I can face her. Thanks."

"My pleasure," he answered softly, rising at her beckoning.

"Lanoré," she spoke the name, hoping that no emotion showed through. The woman stood among the white bodies, stone-cold as ever—cold like the ice she had learnt to master.

But then, in a fleeting, fleeting second of doubt, Clynine thought she saw a new imprint in her aura—darkness. Shadows, pulsing like a crazy halo about her head and her being, flitting in and out of her lips and eyes.

Then it was gone, just as quickly. The Cleric set her gaze stubbornly forward.

"I see you've changed your mind," murmured the Archmage, equally emotionless.

Clynine snarled like a dog. "I have changed my mind about nothing! But as Zethis has reminded me, learning my skill is not admitting subservience to you—so I will show you! I can Resurrect the doves!"

And she did not allow her mistress to interrupt. Her fingers swept outwards with unnerving confidence, without the familiar staff in hand.

Clynine!

But she was already caught in her wheel of light, and Zethis could say no more to her, for she wouldn't hear. Good luck, Clynine, he felt himself whisper. And because he was close enough, he reached out to touch her fingers—and her grip tightened slightly, before slipping away into the blazing light.

And as she began, she felt the garden turn into sky. To them she was only glowing—but to her, she was soaring miles into the deeps of a world full of crystal blades, searching for a treasure she didn't know she would find.

Her arms dashed themselves upon the rocks. She cried out, and let her breath loose. Her wings finally left the abyss and bloomed into the seashore.

Come, come, come! She called after the birds as they departed, fifteen minutes away, perhaps too far. Her throat bled for each spirit, but her heart spiralled through the skies unfailing, falling in love, and out of it, and in again, into an ocean that rose and fell like yet another, every other.

Please don't stray too far; I fear to fly across the sea…

And from fear, her flight hugged the shore of the ocean. She found them, suddenly—white souls, as pale and as pure as snowflakes melting in the summer winds. Flitting away from the cliff, on towards an expanse so broad they were nothing in comparison.

Come, spirits! You must return, for you were killed not by hate, but by jealousy!

Jealousy—because you may always soar, but she will never.

Then she could feel it. Her seams were tearing, her spirit breaking like shards of a bowl clumsily mended together, ready to split apart at the bidding of a breeze. Stay together, she begged unto herself, but she was already perched on the precarious edge of destruction. She couldn't go on like this for long.

But we are together, flying together…and we must go…

Please! She begged, uselessly. You must return—your wings are a blessing to Orbis—

A bit too late. Her spirit was ripping apart, and she was screaming. She was breaking, breaking into pieces that were caught and flung out in the relentless wind.

Then, suddenly, she was falling. Falling, falling, falling. Her grip on the sky was gone, and she was helpless, hopeless, her cause wasted…

I'm leaving! She thought, hurtling mercilessly towards the ocean, towards the sharp rocks camouflaged beneath the silk water of the bay. It was time to end, time to forget how to live. I'm leaving now, and no one will be there to stop me! Goodbye…goodbye…

Desperate cries resounded in reply, suddenly. No, no—don't go there, don't go there, Clynine…

Helpless banshee screams, for the pain that had the Cleric's entire borderless being in tangles, for a heart drowning in the sky.

Flickers of souls, chasing her down, a thousand white arrows shooting after her as she screamed and plummeted—

Yes! Screamed the Cleric. That cruel woman who sent me on this journey—she meant for me to die, die, die—

Then, she felt gentle feathers coming to enfold her, in the middle of the sky. She felt them brushing her shoulders and her face, and telling her that she would be alright.

We will come, child! Don't you cry! Don't you hurt yourself like this! We will come, Clynine, we will come…together with you, we will live again…

She could hear a heartbeat around her suddenly, bearing her on like a drum whose rhythm would never die; was it hers? Or was it the doves'?

Then she realised that it was the beat of wings, wings all around her—wings prouder than the sky, carrying her on and on, back to the shore.

The air shimmered around her like the surface of a lake, and the feathers painted trails in her gaze. Clynine breathed deeply—but her chest tightened and hurt when she did, and only her own breathlessness stopped her from screaming.

Light was drifting upwards all around her, in flecks and stars like pieces of a broken dream. They smiled at her—and together, the twenty-one doves rose from the road, streaks of violent blood staining their pure feathers.

Welcome, and farewell, and welcome, and farewell again.

Their voices seemed to echo with the words, as they departed for the clouds. Lanoré and Zethis were silent side by side, feet in the grass—one awestruck, the other incredulous. And Clynine, Clynine was just as blank as she had been in the last minutes, breathing deeply with eyes that wouldn't close, yet wouldn't open.

Goodbye, she moved her lips to say, soundless but sincere. They waved once more, and took to the firmament above.

Then she heard a set of footsteps proceeding through the gravel towards her. "Clynine, you did it!" The edges of her every thought were blurred. "Clynine!"

Lanoré said not a word. She might have acknowledged her achievement, a summoning of twenty-one souls after fifteen minutes of departure, but she didn't make it known. All the half-dead Cleric heard were fading footsteps—and soft whispered words beside her ear.

You're amazing, Clynine. You're so very talented.

She felt her heart leap silently at the hidden brilliance of his soft voice, like gold waiting to be polished. It was a special feeling, one that only spared an infinitesimal instant of time to touch her heart.

And that told her all she needed to know.

A minute later, she could hear no longer. And there wouldn't be any words from her for a few hours. But someone stayed to listen—just in case.

where everyone has gone

High in the sky, the last verses of autumn were melting quietly away. The vines were turning grey on the trellises, the leaves scattering like brittle wings. And here, oxymoronically underground in the sky, Ralinn had just discovered something she wondered why she hadn't discovered earlier. Burying her head deeper into the book, she felt the lump in her throat grow.

"The Spear accords the wielder power immeasurable, power so vast that almost no one in the world, save a talented few, has strength enough to contain its rage. Finding one with the ability to do so is as likely as flipping a coin and having it land on its edge."

And in those words, she finally came to realize that what she had just spent seven years doing might well come to naught. Without a hand to drive it, the Spear was useless. And who knew how she would find someone capable of withstanding Spear's power, at the rate that her informative book stated?

A person who as common as a coin landing between heads and tails?

The voice led me to the members, and it will lead me to a wielder, she tried to reassure herself, smoothing the ruffled pages and slipping the volume into her haversack.

"So, Shirion," murmured Turino, a little moodily, as they took their lonely seats in a corner of the lounge for lunch. The Crusader lowered his tray and sat, hunching over his sandwich.

"Hmm?"

"Where's everyone now? I know Ketara's out entertaining himself at some place he calls the King's Rear End—Raydan's there too, trying to 'make himself useful'… But the rest?"

Shirion gave a thoughtful glance at the ceiling. "Why's Raydan making himself useful…at a bar? Odd, that." He took a bite of his sandwich, while his companion bit off a large corner of his plain beef slice. Chewing deliberate and slow, the ever-serious man turned again to the window next to them. There was nothing outside, except for blue sky and a flock of clouds.

"Clynine and Lanoré are training in a secret part of the gardens, and Akera—um, she's…in her room." The warrior self-consciously averted Turino's gaze.

"Still there?"

Shirion nodded. Turino drew back slightly, finishing his measly piece of beef and insisting that it was enough. The Crusader raised an eyebrow.

"I ate less than this in the Dungeon," the Mage insisted furiously. "Nothing weird about it."

"Well, good nutrition is an important part of battle efficiency," answered Shirion logically. He chewed on another mouthful of his sandwich, and swallowed. "You have no idea what wonders a balanced diet does when you're fighting."

"And that's why I'm not a warrior!" replied Turino rather defensively.

The Crusader laughed, shaking his head. "We'll make an entertainer out of you yet," he commented, a statement the Mage obviously didn't appreciate. But knowing it relatively pointless to attempt to convince him otherwise, he departed, realising all of a sudden that he…understood.

I know why Akera loves him. He's a gentleman. He…cares about people. Not like me. Selfish, antisocial, uncouth. With less than half her vocabulary!

He buried his face in his hands at that thought. It was a losing war—yet another, yet another. How many times had he lost it already? The tides of eternal solitude were already dragging him in.

First Mother and Father. Then Telida. And now Akera. Why must it be this way? Must every person I love eventually desert me forever?

"Work? A month? Sweet," was Raydan's immediate response to his newfound bar acquaintance. Around him, mugs clinked on tabletops, the speech merry and rowdy. For a work-day afternoon, there was a large clientele, and that was only testament to how outrageously famous the King's End was.

Funny that the king hasn't closed it down yet, the Sniper had thought upon entry. Then he had noticed the logo on the counter wall. King's property. Blargh. I should have guessed from the name. Here there was barely any fear for discovery, for it seemed any kind of activity was permitted—as long as it met the approval of the necromancer guard at the dark corner. Her presence wasn't overbearing, but it was enough to keep everyone in check.

Again his new friend grinned up at him, placing a map in Raydan's hands. "Every house marked with an X; come back to the End to collect the bottles for each street," instructed the man simply. "You get your pay at the end of the month. Simple as that." Another toothy grin.

Raydan nodded eagerly, glad to finally be making money for himself. The man gave his new employee a pat on the shoulder, and then the deal was done.

And thus Raydan spent the days of his month delivering milk to Orbis citizens. He earned about three hundred mesos a day, and that wasn't a bad rate for a delivery job.

Ketara began to form a little social circle of his own, at the bar that no one could tear down—already girls were asking him out on dates, and occasionally, so did the men. Telida somehow caught him every time someone tried to make an advance on him—lurking in the shadows at the far end until she suspected something was about to happen. Then she would spring out, dagger flailing, leaving a few cuts here and there without actually starting a fight.

She had gained a fearsome reputation there—Ketara's "stalker", as the more jealous ones liked to put it. She never spent more than ten minutes with him, though, and still the Dragon Knight felt his heart ache whenever she left. Never before had he felt so wanted. Wanted by everyone, except the one he needed the most.

Ralinn spent her days and nights writing essays by window light, discursive essays on the various thoughts she had when she was racing from the gardens to the inn and back again. Thoughts about the king and the guards and why he had changed his ways, so suddenly. Shirion joined her often, and they talked for many hours a day, from breakfast to dinner. But somehow, they never talked of moving on to the last part of the Spear.

Clynine and Lanoré never got any better with each other. The woman no longer wanted anything to do with the girl, and eventually that aloofness came to encompass the rest of the guild. She spent all her evenings in the far ends of the gardens, freezing the trees and shrubs into ice sculptures—only her own cunning kept her trail from being picked up. The only ones concerned with this change were Zethis and Ralinn—but the rest weren't at the inn often enough to notice.

Akera couldn't stop thinking. She was thinking, all the while, about how hard it would be to rally them for their final quest into the Goddess' Tower. But when the time came, she knew there would be a sign, and thus there would be a way. With the right planning, as she had learnt, anything was a possibility.

zethis: light of a dream, reprised

In his bed in the middle of the overbearing night, Zethis was tossing about beneath the sheets. In the dark, he could only long for light—and when he thought of light, he could only think of Clynine. Burying his face in his pillow, he sighed. What was this, this deep raging need to see her again?

What's wrong with me? What was this strange, feverish feeling that had him in its net?

In his brooding, there came a knock on the door. Flung violently from his thoughts, the young White Knight sprang from his bed in utter fright, pulling back against the backboard. His breaths were restless and loud, all he heard for the next two seconds…

It came again. Swallowing, the young White Knight slipped out of the blankets, the cold coming almost instantly to grip his feet. Taking care to keep his feet upon the carpet, the youth crept as carefully as he could, blind in the night where only a sliver of moon filtered through the crack in the wall.

He reached out to where he knew his mace lay on the tabletop, picking it up and setting it aglow, feeling the metal grow warm with his Fire Charge.

Three more insistent knocks—and in the silence of the night, they were suddenly ghostly. Zethis proceeded to the door. Biting his lower lip in case he cried out in fear, he reached out, swallowed, and pulled it open—

"Zethis!" Clynine whispered from the doorway. She was in a pale nightgown, her eyes somehow so bright.

Zethis' first response was a cry of terror. "C-C-Clynine," he gasped, biting back his fear. "Why're you…here?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she whispered, tilting her head. Her smile was strange, unnatural even. "I can't sleep."

The male youth slowly he let himself smile, shyly. She might have been blushing, the way she glanced briefly away. He turned abruptly away, heat raging in his face. It was far beyond midnight, and here he stood, alone the most beautiful girl in the world…

"Can we…go somewhere?" whispered Clynine suddenly.

"Oh, where?" Needless to say, he was glad for the suggestion.

She giggled in the cold, defying the ice and their shared fears. She merely gestured for him to follow—and as she slipped away through the dimly torch-lit corridors, Zethis snatched up his fur jacket and gave chase, suddenly unafraid.

The late autumn night opened out above, and the night came to swallow them as they fled across the streets—safe from watching eyes, safe from the chase of duty and the scourge of obligation—free, if only for this hallowed hour of the night. Above them the moon was broken in half—half black, half white, like a chip from a dragon's eggshell.

Zethis breathed deeply in the next gale, pulling the jacket on. The night air was glistening with starlight, and as he ran, he found his steps slowing, his eyes soaking in the wondrous brilliance of the world around him.

When the youth next looked up, Clynine had already left; she was already at the bottom of the fortress, a vast marble staircase winding precariously to the top of the wall. With barely a second, the Cleric swiftly took off up the flight. "Clynine!" called the White Knight, almost worried that she'd fall. He followed fast, rising after her, rising and rising till he was out of the shadows, thrust into the windswept sky at the top of the wall.

He was on a road beside a huge drop to El Nath. All over again. Memories swept the White Knight away—memories of a wild chase and of the taste of fear, of robes and shadows raging above, of a doorway, a gateway, where a lone Cleric was waiting…

The Orbis PQ; it's gone, isn't it? The place we met…

Then he blinked, and the memory was rendered no more than that. Somewhere ahead of him, the Cleric turned and smiled. "Zethis!" she called, voice high and clear. "Zethis, come! The view's amazing!"

Zethis felt his heart leap—the way the moon shone in her back, it gave the illusion of angel wings. He recalled, for seconds, the moment when Dances with Balrog had taken his face to infuse him with the Page's powers. In his imagination, a brilliant presence had come to stand beside him, taking him in her wings…

Zethis arrived at Clynine's side as she came to lean against the balcony side and stretch her arms to the sky. "Never felt so good in my life!" she gasped into the wind. A few more clouds skirted away to uncover another section of the sky, and both turned, watching the tiny jewel points glitter in the blackness, still and suddenly afraid.

"I-it's strange." The sixteen-year-old Cleric's lonely words seemed to echo, as she glanced somewhere else. "You know…I couldn't sleep just now because I was thinking—about you. I kept thinking about what I'd say to you the next time I saw you. I was growing so…so afraid to meet you, you know? I—just couldn't stop. Is this very strange?"

Zethis knew his face was red by now, and he was utterly glad that no one could see. Distracting himself deliberately, he glanced down into the snow. Something glinted, a little far away—it was the mirror of the Party Quest, drifting aimlessly around the circumference of the building, levitating somewhere near the next bend of the wall. Not lost after all. The warrior would have laughed at the absurdity of the image—but he was too afraid of breaking the magic of this moment to do so.

"You know…I couldn't sleep either. And because…because I was thinking about you."

"Oh, then it's not strange at all, or else we're both weird…" Voice pausing momentarily, she drew her arms around herself. "Oh, I should have worn more than just this…"

Suddenly, Zethis realized that she was in nothing but her sleepwear—and for a weak-bodied girl like her, the cold was probably twice as harsh. The youth gave a small exclamation of concern, but she shook her head with starlight-flooded eyes, sniffling and stepping a little closer.

"C-Clynine, it's not good for you," he managed to insist, feeling suddenly guilty for the thick fur jacket he wore over his sweater, over his shirt. He took the outermost layer off, panicking for her sake; the girl tried to refuse his offer, but he quickly draped his jacket over her shoulders anyway. The cold came rapidly upon him.

"You need it more than me," the White Knight protested when she tried to give it back.

"But Z-Zethis, then…you'll be cold." She sniffed again, and rubbed her nose.

"Better than you being cold," he replied earnestly, warmth rousing in the core of his soul, again. "I care about you…more than I care about me, y'know?"

That kept her silent for seconds. In those moments, the warrior began to feel the true cold bite of the frosty wind. How much worse the girl must have felt…

Two cold hands suddenly came to take his wrists. It was Clynine—not that it could have been anyone else—and she was pulling his arms, gently and slowly, to encircle her shoulders. When he attempted to tug them away in embarrassment, she only laughed sweetly and nestled herself against his body, head against his shoulder.

Now Zethis could only hope she couldn't hear how fast his heart was throbbing. "U—uh, Clynine—"

No. No, he wasn't ready to respond to this gesture. Not from a girl. Not like this. Not so close. Not Clynine!

…She's so warm…

"Thanks for caring," the Cleric's murmur was slightly sleepy, slightly ecstatic, high and comfortable.

"Oh…it's nothing," Zethis tried to respond, though his voice shook pitifully, almost pathetically mousy.

It was then that Clynine decided to spare him the trouble of carrying on with the conversation. Her movements grew more reserved, more tentative, and she seemed almost as if she were preparing to run away. "There's…a first for everything, you know," whispered the girl, voice quavering with more than the cold. "There's a first time for success, for failure…a first time to lose all confidence in yourself."

While Zethis silently contemplated these words, Clynine turned her back a little, just enough for him to see her smile. "This is a first for me," she said, eyes closing. "You, Zethis. I've never quite met someone like you…someone who doesn't force his presence upon everyone. Someone who will try carefully again and again—not all at one go." She laughed. "You always were so nice, Zethis."

"But…so were you, Clynine! So ready to…to agree with me, and make me feel like—like I was worth it."

"Oh, but you are worth it! More than that." She sighed, and now he could feel her every word and breath vibrating against his chest. Almost as if their hearts were beating in time. "This is a first for me, Zethis…"

"Your first time waking up at midnight and running to the top of a city?"

Her laugh this time was even merrier, and as dear as dear could be. "I suppose, but only because it's with you, Zethis. This is my…first time, falling in love."

And he knew should have gone faint with these words, his knees wanting to collapse or to take him running away. But half because of the cold and half because of shock, he wasn't doing anything. He couldn't think. He felt his head spin.

"I—I—Clynine!" he turned, flushing deeply. "Clynine…is this really…it? This thing that has chased me for two years…is this love?"

Clynine sighed deeply as the next vast gale came to caress them. She reached up to grip his hands, and at her touch he feared he might wilt. "It can't be…anything else, can it?"

Clynine…? Do you, really?

Far out beyond the stone barrier, the stars winked at the pair that stood midway into their realm. Were they laughing? Zethis didn't really care anymore. Is this what makes Akera so mad? Is this why Linn doesn't fear Akera's madness? Is this how it feels, to love someone who didn't give you anything, anything besides a reason to believe the best of the world…?

Clynine sneezed, jerking far forward and leaving him suddenly cold. "D'you have tissue?" she muttered with a wobbly voice. "I forgot—" She sneezed twice now, giving an unwholesome sniffle.

"I'm so—sorry," answered Zethis apologetically. "Let's go back…I'm sorry…"

She smiled, wiping her nose in a very unbecoming way. "It was…my idea, wasn't it?"

Together they descended the grand staircase like falling stars into a canyon—and if not for Clynine's constant sniffling, it would have been the most magical minute in the world. Once back within the warmth of the inn's lobby, the pair came to a stop beside the waiting bench, Clynine blinking sleepily.

"It's…so…late," she whispered, eyes closing for moments. Zethis had wanted to stop her, but she sat exhaustedly down upon the bench a little too soon, sniffing a last time and leaning against the cushioned backrest.

Oh, not here…it's not safe here…

But she had already fallen asleep. And for fear of the strange things that could happen at night, he took the little empty space on the bench beside Clynine and fell into his own shallow sleep.

The pair was found the next morning by a group of other guests—but it was Ralinn who finally awakened them from their awkward position, squeezed together on the waiting bench of the inn.

"Uh—ah…argh!" Zethis' words were all but incoherent as he shifted first from drowsiness to confusion, then to acute embarrassment.

Ralinn stifled a laugh. "I won't ask," she answered, grinning widely still, while Clynine too began to remember and reddened almost as much as he did.

nightfall: high hopes and war songs

The HQ dining room was unfamiliar today. Every table had been pushed to the walls, making way for the high noise of the battlers as they readied their potion stocks and sharpened weapons, making final checks on their armour while they conversed about the coming mission.

Oh, how grand their hopes! They would change the world today. The air itself held its breath; the clouds were high and grey, as had reported Coelion from his short recon mission. But they wouldn't be breaking today—no, not today, upon the masters of the night.

The Chief Bandit's report had been taken far too lightly for an organized guild like theirs—but Pelinor was in a good mood today. His eyes were bright, brighter than they had been for years, these years that were waning for him too fast.

Today, and then I can rest in peace, he had said. Merely thirty-five, but with enough scars to permanently cripple a lesser man. My times is coming, I know it is—I've fled death too often. But now my name shall be written beside Thaemis' and Lanoré's, and future heroes will be glad to have theirs written beside mine!

Then Pelinor was at the front of the hall again. The Hero called, and everyone stood at attention. When the man spoke, he spoke with his heart and his history. Today, they would take his words, and keep them forever.

"My Nightfall, my dearest Nightfall, we stand here at the edge of the next era," he roared. The roar returned a hundredfold—and in its raging swell, he felt his heart soar like the eagle in the sun. "Here we stand, a hundred men and women who have not listened what the King decreed with those empty words. A hundred outcasts, destined for death, saved from shadow! We have learnt the art of the Goddess, of the Dragon, and it will be the death of the tyrant today!"

Vast applause. Rousing whoops of approval, as if the battle had been won. For the battle has been won—by spirit, by strength! He will never best us, that cold heart of his—Fate knows it too well; hate and evil never win!

With a wide grin, amidst the cheers that swelled higher and higher, Pelinor took up the regal roar of a king on his own, of one who would had been downed once, and would never be downed again. A phoenix, risen from the ashes.

"I was trained a Warrior, a Fighter, a Crusader. And now, I am called a Hero by profession. But until he earns it, a hero does not have a right to his title! Today we shall earn it—not just I, but every man, every woman, every child in this hall. Today we will unhand the king's grip. He will release the chain—and we will be heroes of Victoria!"

The walls shook like they never had. The forest boughs swayed in the gales, sheltering, shielding, from the king beyond, from ears that would never hear the warmth in these words.

"Forward, first army!" he commanded, raising a fist. The pages flung the gates open, gates to the rustling forest, to winds that whirled through the hall and echoed in the eaves like a war song, a sky song. "Forward, and do your job well!"

And then, the charge had begun.

Between the shadows of the bridges, Lanoré raised her gaze to the storm-clouds—it was as if the blue of the sky had fallen and become trapped in her eyes.

She could feel its weight in her pocket, growing heavier every time she took a step in any direction.

Somewhere along the line, she had forgotten why she still carried the accursed Neck with her wherever she went. Perhaps it was a false sense of need that the item was subtly slipping beneath her skin. Perhaps it was the constant, possibly false, memory of an order to hold it safe.

But she continued to carry it with her anyway, feeling her soul and life grow more and more inseparably tangled with its black roots at her every heartbeat.

akera: to the tune of fate

Akera gazed though the windows. What was that strange soaring feeling? It was like a bell chiming in the distance.

This is the day, it sang.

The month was almost at its end, and everyone was somewhere outside, living their dreams. The Mage herself had spent every day with a scarf over her head to hide her hair, reading the newspapers daily, spotting mentions everywhere of Lanoré.

This was done in cafes while sipping latte, every Monday and Thursday when she wasn't out winning Omok tournaments. Over her month embraced by the warmth of the cafe and the whispers of conversation around her, Akera found herself mellowing. She could imagine, suddenly, that she was a different person. No Ralinn, no Shirion, no Orion's Belt. No need to hate myself, or to hate anyone else.

The drink between her warm palms often reminded her of the old colour of her hair, of all things—and in its swirls, she found herself thinking of times long lost, times she knew she'd never recover.

Sunken into her old world she had been, a world with no embers and only blue bolts between her palms. And raindrops staining the window, beyond curtains from the sea. She had almost lost herself again, and learnt once more the truth of happiness.

But the newspapers had never ceased to remind her of reality, day in and day out. There were written stories of families being burned to death for having three children. Stories of men and women locked into the mines for defiance. Stories, over and over, of a new hostile in the gardens of Orbis that could only be Lanoré.

This is the day! Come, Akera! Fate calls upon you!

The voice of Time? She had grown to love the stagnated peace so, walking the streets and peering into shop-house windows. Why should she listen? Why should she break open the windows of her calm remembered world, reenter that disgusting world of shadows above?

But decide as she may, duty was calling, too loudly to ignore. A duty to the world that had given her life. There was a reason, and a rhyme, and a call that reached only to her. Akera. The one who couldn't be turned away from duty by joy and by hate.

This is for me, she thought, rising from her seat, draining her cup of coffee. She returned the papers to the rack, gave her robes a sweep—and with that she was out on the streets.

Down the roads she flew. The sky was heavy with the first storm of winter, and she knew that El Nath would suffer its worst, though Orbis would not be spared. Flowerless El Nath, frozen centuries ago. As she crossed the paths to the garden where the shop-houses led, she put together all she had learnt in the last thirty days.

The grand red shape of the King's End rose gradually into existence at the edge of the road. The cobblestones rippled past as Akera ran, focusing her gaze upon the shape of the door ahead. Now, now or never! The two windows are crossing and soon they will be one!

Fate calls. Fate, who already knows all the answers.

Then the door was right before her, and gripping her staff with madness, she got ready to pull the most amazing manoeuvre yet.

The first inkling of forebodingthat Ketara had was the slamming of the bar door into the wall. Almost simultaneously, every head within the bustling room turned to the source of the noise, mouths opening in synchrony—

"Akera!"

Ketara turned—the exclamation had come from somewhere else. Telida, his mind pounded. Here in the bar, as always. Watching him, his dark angel. Oh, Telida…

But he didn't have the time to seek her out. Before him, something flashed red, brilliant ruby red. And everything collapsed inwards.

FIRE ARROW!

Streaks of flame, screaming between the tables, scattering customers, their drinks toppling and their feet scrabbling on the planks to flee their sure, sharp courses. A table was blown apart, and the drinkers dashed back in frenzy. The crazy girl at the door, she was at the door no longer—suddenly amidst the havoc, skin glowing orange with an imminent—

EXPLOSION!

Flickering white hair, burnt at the edges. The tables rippled like carpets in the wind, buckling in the heat and rearing up against wooden walls. Men and women kicked and shoved to flee the attack—in one swoop the female Mage's attack had flattened them all to the floorboards.

Who was this crazy person?

Her ice-blue glare shot in Ketara's direction—get over here now was written in the Fire Poison Mage's eyes. The Dragon Knight began to run…

"Disorder is foul. Disorder must be righted."

Then the guardian woman had had enough—and she rose, her necromancer's cloak around her like black wings. Her voice wasn't a human's; it was that of a chained servant, tormented into corpse-likeness.

"Disorder is evil. Disorder must turn to uniformity."

Her staff gleamed violet—then black.

Akera snarled at the two again, more urgently—no more, for she was wreaking more havoc in the lowlight of the bar. Fire roared again, and tables collapsed in blackness, screams of horror exploding through the air like rockets.

Come! Her command was so frightening that Ketara instantly dashed across, raging his path through the throngs of flailing bodies around him. Telida was swifter, sparing them no mercy.

"You two kids could be more punctual!" Akera snapped as they arrived, glancing agitatedly about. "We need to get out of here without them noticing we're gone. Do you have your weapons?"

Telida flashed a star from the inner pocket of her dark leather jacket. "Left it with the keeper," answered Ketara as quietly as he could. Akera glanced about once more to see if anyone was watching. The entire bar was embroiled in a huge, violent mass of fist-fights, half-drunk customers taking their inebriated anger out on each other.

"Now if my intuition served me correctly," she murmured, "There will be a sign any moment now…"

At that very moment, two things happened. The first was that a bolt of necromancer lightning shot straight in their direction—it would have knocked Telida's arm straight off her, had it come just an inch lower. Instead it grazed her shoulder, and that was enough to set them into motion.

And the second was a sudden familiar shout, just moments after they turned to run.

"Ooh, bar fight?"

Raydan had just finished the second street on his delivery round, and had come to the King's End to collect his next batch of milk. But almost immediately, he had realized that something was amiss—smoke was billowing through the windows. Interest mounting rapidly, the nosey Sniper had then hopped over to the door, peering inside…

Only to find himself facing a far greater chaos than he could have been prepared for.

Flames blazed hungrily over fallen tables, broken people, devouring spilt puddles of beer like mad ghosts. And of course, his mind had come to the easiest conclusion.

"Ooh, bar fight?"

No sooner had he spoken those words, than the shouting rose again with voracity, swallowing whatever silence could have been—and from its midst, he thought he heard the two syllables of his name…

"Raydan!"

Akera—and she looked flaming mad. Mad with joy, if he could say so himself—but Raydan had no time to conclude, because suddenly he was being dragged back by a pair of hands—one Ketara's, the other Telida's.

"Lida!" he gasped, a wide smile spreading across his bewildered face.

"Quick!" Akera whispered harshly in response, rapping him on the head before speeding urgently off. On they raced, towards the storage keeper deep in the marketplace. Ketara sprang to the counter, exchanging his tag for his stored weapon. With nothing but a short thank-you, they were off again, Akera leading them through the bustling market streets towards an unknown destination. Faces around them were turning to stare rather often now, more often than Raydan found comfortable.

"At this rate, the necromancers will be upon us in no time," sputtered the Sniper.

"That's what the bar was for," was the Mage's hasty answer. "To stall them so they're slower to find us—and when they do find us, in a smaller force. Now, the gardens—"

But something had distracted the entire group. Ketara had come to a sudden stop, and now he was shouting and waving frantically across the street.

"Zethis! Clynine!" he yelled, arms flailing madly as the other three came to a halt, and the pair on the opposite sidewalk turned with surprise all over their faces.

Instantly, Raydan was upon them. "I see you've finally gotten together!" he exclaimed with a wide grin. Clynine was the first to snap out, waving excitedly back and racing across the street. Zethis quickly followed.

"I suppose shopping will have to come later," sighed the Cleric.

Akera looked slightly heartened by their arrival. "Shopping will probably have to come after we defeat the king," she replied. "After the Shard, it'll—"

"Shard?" answered all five at the same time.

"It's the fourth part, the source of energy, the frozen vial of the Goddess' blood," the white-haired Mage's explanation was swift as they resumed progress. "We won't be having Shirion and Ralinn with us today—or Turino for that matter. But we need Lanoré. So, do you have your weapons?" Akera seemed almost expectant when Zethis and Clynine revealed the mace and staff, both commenting on how they had decided to take the weapons along today just in case.

"Alright—you might not be ready for what we're about to do—but this will go right, I can promise it to you."

Ketara looked the most thrilled at this piece of news. Raydan couldn't help but feel the lurch in his stomach that told him, this involves pulling some crazy stunt and surviving it somehow. But then again, he was used to it.

The gardens of Orbis were some of the finest in Ossyria, second only to Mu Lung's in many books. This beauty, however, had just begun to be ravaged by the very woman for whom they were now searching—and whatever remained of it presently went completely unnoticed.

The presence of Lanoré wasn't found; it was felt. Even in the cascading white snow, the air grew yet colder. And the strange formations around them on the flowerbeds—the perennial flowers of Orbis were jagged stalagmites of glassy ice, all the way along the pathway from here to the arch at the end—they told them that the woman was close at hand.

She was under the arch—beside the bridge, where the walls were low enough to make anyone else feel terrified.

"Lanoré!" Akera exclaimed with a smile, forcing herself forward in a final burst even though she was panting, breaths almost visible in the sluggish winter air. "Lanoré, we're going now—"

She turned as they approached, and there was some sort of calm to her. "You, Clynine," she leered softly. "Have you seen what's become of the flowers?" Everyone turned to the Cleric. She clenched her teeth as her face began to redden, fists curling into balls…

Rustle.

It was then that the blackness began to rise. Everywhere. In the bridge swaying far ahead, so innocently—in the ice statues that lined the roads—in the shadows behind the stones.

The invisible snare had been sprung again. A snare made for the Archmage.

With Akera's first cry of despair, the sky began to wilt around them like a spoilt painting. Telida shrieked in fury—snatching Ketara's arm for security. Clynine and Zethis backed away. Raydan cursed.

And Lanoré—

The woman was walking calmly forwards. One step, one step—arms wide as she discarded her Blade Staff at her side. The Lithium staves rose in a robotic, synchronized motion around her. Still Lanoré walked.

"Lanoré! Stop that! Come back!" Akera's voice was high, desperate. She knew she was in a deadlock. Her eyes were upon Lanoré's staff, and she was aware of everything, of every move that was about to be made. If she dipped to snatch the staff, they would fire. If she shouted, they would fire too, and where could they go to avoid it…?

Then, she saw the location of the only opening.

In front of them, the Archmage gave a high cackle. "Come, necromancers! Give me all you have!"

Lanoré—she won't follow orders! Not in this state—

Desperate times, desperate measures.

A great crackling suddenly flooded the air in a hot surge, linking one cloaked creature to another. Akera knew how long it took to charge and fire a lethal magic attack. Five seconds. Five seconds—and that was all the time she had to form all the options, to choose the right one, to calculate all the angles, to ready her heart and mind for what was about to happen.

She was done by the first second.

This is the only way we'll survive. Who cares about the risk?

If they waited, only death would come. If they took the shot, then there was a chance they would survive. But that was only if Fate didn't choose this time to play a prank on them—which it well might.

And yet it was the only way they could go now. And despite all her misgivings for how narrow the probabilities were, how absurdly dangerous an act she was about to commit—she let her heart take control. Her eyes narrowed on the distance, focusing, and her voice screamed the command:

"TWO O'CLOCK—JUMP!"

And the black-red lightning bloomed.

Her heartbeat pushed her forward. She fell to a squat to snatch the weapon—sprang with her every drop of strength in a straight diagonal trajectory towards Lanoré—a path that would inevitably pass between two necromancers, past them, towards the edge of Orbis—

The blaze swelled, timing the milliseconds.

Cries beyond her, of her friends shooting past. But she was blind, and she didn't know what they were doing. She was flying on the strength of her legs, screaming as she smashed into Lanoré, arms outstretched. And together they continued to soar, on the path she had planned—passing between the cloaks of the necromancers, barely scraping past the blaze of the heat…

And her inertia was enough to carry them both. To the edge of the garden. Across it.

This is the gamble.

"Akera!" shrieked Lanoré, as the wall vanished beneath them, and all that remained below was half a mile of sky. "Akera, put me down! Put me down!"

You're going crazy, Lanoré. Maybe you're past your prime.

And sky rose to engulf them, lightning closing in overhead like a furnace.

Falling, straight, out of safety and into utter helplessness. The sky raced past. For seconds, Akera thought she had been ultimately wrong, that at last her guesses had failed, and her doom had arrived.

I knew it'd happen eventually…

Then, she saw it beneath them—just a glimmer. A piece of reflected sky.

"Risk anything and everything—you will make it in and out, completely safe."

It was the mirror.

Akera finally understood. This was why the mirror of the Party Quest was behaving erratically. Through Arelyn's promise, their safety had been irrefutably guaranteed. Time had known all along that she would make this move. Time had positioned all the variables perfectly for the event—her guild mates, the necromancers, the mirror—

By the Clock Spirit—the promise had already been fulfilled, even before she had asked.

They tumbled through clouds together, reaching terminal velocity and feeling their skin burn. The mirror was larger than they had thought, they realised as they plummeted steadily towards the great object. And suddenly it was everywhere around them, wider than an ocean, inviting them inside and swallowing them up in the coldness of glass.

hyrien: rainfall

All around Henesys, the winds were roaring. The castle roads were raging with weapons, singing above the howl of the sky. As long as their comrades battled well, there would be no guards to meet their assault from the remote dump site. The gate would be open for them, and completely to their disposal.

The last of the trees finally passed behind them, and they were out on dirt road. Ahead of him, the White Knight's comrades were surging down the road to the dump gates. Even here, he could smell the stench of the king's trash—rotting fruit rinds and discarded meat, meat that could have gone to better use on another's table.

Deserted. Perfect. And they dashed down the dust path to the end, weapons drawn, the gates creaking open, arch rising around them like a great skeletal mouth. Beyond it, stacks of rubbish spread all the way across the barren quarter-acre expanse…

And that was when they realised that everything—was—wrong.

Behind the gates at the far end of the dump, there waited a force. An entire force of guards, faceless armour visors peering through the shadows like ghosts.

Clang.

The inner gate was flung open, and a flood of crashing metal, bound by the bars no longer, roared forward like a river over a broken dam. Not like the guards in the deeps of Perion or in the perimeter of the Ellinia Station. The king's very best force, trained since birth to protect their master's grand lair.

"This is the test that will prove us worthy!" Suddenly came Pelinor's call, unsheathing his sword in the grey light. As one, they drew their weapons. "To the gates!"

And at once, the battle for the gates had begun. There was an ocean of armour everywhere, not belonging to any one man but to all of them at the same time—within their shells they were identical. But Nightfall could not be intimidated by mere metal. The guards fought with swords and spears and bayonets, fashioned to knife-sharpness by the captured talents within the darkest factories of the world. But so what? They didn't have the passion and love with which real humans fought.

Hyrien hadn't the time to think—spears were suddenly crashing against his flailing golden mace, a storm of battlers ringing beyond the flickering heads around him. All he could do was take up his part with all his strength—parry every blow, return twofold, smash where he could and part the throngs of armoured guards.

And all the while, he was beginning to feel it again—a gripping, slithering coldness, like a snake in the pits of his stomach.

They knew we were coming, all along. They knew we'd try—and they were ready for us.

Pelinor's cry. A flash of his broadsword, and a guard's helmet flying, rattling into the dust. All around him, he heard a roar of approval, a roar of fear, a surge of thunder. Hyrien felt the fury tug at his blood too.

But though he knew he should have charged, he could now only stare at the man who had lost his helmet, the crest of the guard captain embossed in his armour. Esharo, the one who had betrayed his side half a year ago.

And what if he will help us again…?

It's worth the try. With that singular thought, the White Knight barrelled through a row of guards, shoulder connecting with armour, sending the guard collapsing into a rubbish heap. "Esharo!" the warrior shouted and forced his way through a last row of guards with his impregnable mace, slipping across the last mound of rubbish. "Esharo, tell them to stop! This can be settled!"

With a swing of the spear, Esharo whirled around, sending the point flashing through Hyrien's vision for seconds—before he straightened, suddenly. "Hyrien—" the guard gasped, withdrawing rapidly. "But how? How can this end with neither of us losing? I am the guard captain, Hyrien, and your escape is my failure!"

"You owe me, Esharo!" shouted the warrior suddenly. "The deal, Esharo. I let you off last time. Now it's your turn."

"But—but this involves my life, Hyrien! This time I can't lie, about defeating you—"

It was during this moment of their arbitration that in the corner of his vision, Hyrien suddenly caught sight of Pelinor's advance from behind. On Esharo. Grinning, almost madly, as he slipped, slipped soft across the barren earth, drew his sword over…his…head…

Instinct gripped Hyrien there and then, in a descending whirlpool of flickers. Esharo is a good man. Esharo is a friend. Esharo will help us one day.

And instinct commanded him to save the guard.

"Behind you!"

Esharo whirled out of the way, moments before Pelinor's broadsword shot past—it would have caught his neck and sent his head flying if he had stayed. For seconds, the guard stood panting with horror, his face twisted with the mortifying fear.

And Pelinor—he was fuming suddenly, his body slowing to a stop. "Hyrien! I don't believe you!" the Guild Master roared, almost drunk. Yet beneath those layers of fury, there was something else—a speechless terror, at what he had just seen. "You just—saved a guard, Hyrien. You just—saved him."

Suddenly, the guilt was burning in Hyrien's throat, his fists clenching. Pelinor was right. I betrayed his trust…didn't I? It whirled in his ears, louder than the sounds of battle. He wanted to apologise—but what was the use when he didn't feel his words? What could he say now…

If only he had not been thinking so hard.

"Filthy scum of the lower people!" Esharo's voice was suddenly a bear's bellow, his eyes narrowed, his lance glinting. In his stance was hatred of years—years chasing this delinquent named Pelinor, years of allowing him to breed discord among the people. "You've run too long, Pelinor. You've created enough problems. You will—end—today!"

And while the Crusader's eyes were fixed upon Hyrien, while Hyrien was only staring in numb horror, Esharo primed his weapon, grip tightening—

And he thrust the point of the spear straight, straight, slipping between the plates of Pelinor's adamantium armour, through skin and sinew, into the wall of his abdomen.

The guard wanted more. With a fury and brashness so unlike him, Esharo wrenched the weapon upwards with all his weight. The spear ripped up through the Crusader, rode into his ribcage, tore his lungs open.

In the dark sky, the battle must have frozen.

It was everywhere, everywhere—Pelinor's voice thundered and thundered and fell from the sky in scatters of blood.

"Hyrien!" That was the great Crusader's last sanguine, dying moan. So disbelieving it was almost murderous. "HY—"

His cry gurgled away into blood. Lifeblood shot in streams from where the spear disappeared into his skin, staining his armour plates in red. Flames leapt in his eyes, and then he sank, sank, sank, a candle doused by rain…

Rain.

The sky finally broke to pieces. Suddenly, the greyness was flooding from heaven in streams of tears, upon the windows and sidewalks of Henesys, staining them black.

"PELINOR!" Hyrien could only feel himself gasp, as his hair began to plaster itself to the sides of his face in the downpouring wetness. His breath wheezed once—he knew he wanted to cry, but he had forgotten how; he could only let his sword to fall into the slushy puddles at his feet, eyes burning empty. Esharo was staring at the bloodied pile he had made—the huge man who had survived five stabs near his heart, forty broken bones, and at least a hundred arrows.

The rain soaked through his hair and rolled down his motionless face, making a messy pool of blood among the rinds and peels of the king's unwanted food. His time had come, at last. But it wasn't the hero's ending he had always believed to be his fate.

Filthy, ruined, without glory.

Esharo turned around, a little sorrow in his gaze. Brown rain-sodden hair fell over his cloud-grey eyes, and all too soon he glanced away. "Your price is paid," he murmured. "Go away now. Please." A pause. The battle had been abandoned, for the three most high-ranked had stalled. "Return, guards. And Hyrien, go away!"

Hyrien took the cue this time. Somehow, his head was spinning too much, perhaps with the rain or with exhaustion, for any of the truths to actually register. He glanced at his soaked guild mates, trudging away from the muddied field as a group, eyes downcast, hefting their old Guild Master's body amongst themselves. As he approached, they smiled sadly.

They didn't know what he had done. They thought Pelinor had died a martyr's death—but in fact he had died because of a White Knight's stupidity!

The same one that was about to claim the guild as his own.

"Looks like we're yours now," smiled Window sadly, patting the warrior's back with a wet gloved hand—not that Hyrien could feel it; his armour made him numb and his unshed tears made him number.

All his life, he had lived in a lie. He had lied about Esharo, he had lied about his feelings towards his impending leadership. Now he would lie about Pelinor, for as long as the lie would last.

But I cannot tell them, can I? I can only finish Pelinor's task, just as every heir must do for his predecessor. Nightfall can recover, and Nightfall can certainly rise again, better than before.

But can I…?

It wasn't so strange a feeling anymore, falling through the glass and finding themselves in another world. What was strange was that instead of inverting on its head as before, the world simply stood still as the seven landed on what appeared to be a featureless stone balcony.

"Oh, my…" murmured Ketara, first to rise. He walked to the edge of the balcony—then rapidly backed away when he realised what was there. "Oh, Dragon of Life…how far down is the ground?"

Silently, Clynine crawled over to the side to look—and she jerked backwards, shaking violently. Where was the ground…

"Here by accident?"

All seven jerked to attention, glancing about in shock. The source of the shout was found all too soon—she drifted in midair atop a majestically black horse, rider and mount both so graceful it was almost godly.

But why was her weapon pointed in their direction, and why did she look so angry?

"This place is inhabited; I thought as much," murmured Akera. The woman swooped low on horseback, her long shocking-violet hair glimmering in the light from below.

"Since Time Itself began," answered the woman stiffly. "I am the guardian. You are intruders."

"Mirrors can only be turned into doorways by the four great deities, isn't that so?" Akera mused in response. "Are you Her daughter or Her minion?"

Completely missing the point, though.

"I am none."

Though her posture was all hostility, the woman's voice was strangely charming. Her suit of black armour followed her figure closely—revealing not much, but enough to impress some people in the guild.

"Heh, you're cute," murmured Raydan with a lecherous smile. "Looks like Lida isn't the only one…" He was silenced by a slap from Telida. Clynine almost giggled. Same old Raydan, even in another world, even threatened by an armoured guard on a black dragon horse.

Akera was no different from her normal self either. Regardless of the aim of the woman's halberd, regardless of the hauntingly hostile glare in her brilliant blue eyes, she asked her questions. "'None'? Who are you? Why were you placed here?" Close to Akera, Lanoré was murmuring to herself about the foolishness of youths. Zethis had crawled to Clynine's side, and in the silence, he reached out to grip her hand. "We'll be okay," he whispered over to her. She smiled back, thankful.

All of a sudden, the pair realised that the woman was staring oddly at them and lowering her weapon. "I am Deina, guardian of Mirror-Orbis Tower," she told Akera. "We weren't placed here; we were locked here until the end of time. When this world crumbles away, we will be free—but won't we crumble together with it?" Then she paused, turning back to Clynine and Zethis. "And you two, you are an adorable couple."

Akera watched as the deity's horse flew closer, and the "adorable couple" grew very red in the face, trying to take attention away from themselves. The Mage went on, dead on task. "You must know why we are here then," she said simply.

Deina looked a little sad as she drew backwards. "Then you will play your part, and I will play mine," the woman sighed, rising a little higher, taking her halberd…

Bzzzing. A purple flash. Without any realisation that anything was about to happen—Akera felt something hot catch her in the waist, blasting her backwards so she staggered, a burning sensation coming to twine itself around her abdomen.

Where did that magic come from? A polearm…as a staff?

"But can my friends fight?" she asked, snatching her staff just as quickly, to fire a counter-attack.

"What do you think I have spent ten millennia doing?" answered Deina gloriously, flying a circle so Akera's flaming shot flew uselessly wide, landing on the balcony so she divided them from their only path into the tower. "Fight if you please! So much time, so little to do… I've learnt every secret already!"

Something of a cruel grin came to her features. A furious spiral, and suddenly another bolt caught Akera's shoulder—while Deina was gone she gripped her staff and made a dash for the window—but the woman was between them again, far too fast.

"Oh, what's this? I was hoping fate would send me a worthier opponent!"

Staggering within exhaustion, Akera began to hear footsteps from behind. First, she was aware of Clynine, sending walls of green into the sky, banishing her wounds—then Telida with her stars, black blades spinning through the wind and snipping off sections of Deina's hair. In ten seconds, everyone else was there—even Lanoré with her half-addled mind, firing away with all the talent of the legendary Archmage she was.

Deina was merely a fallible being. But for a battle against fallible being, this was going horribly wrong. Somehow too fast, too agile, too ready. Why weren't there any more than a few patches of soot on her armour? Why wasn't she faltering at all? Why were they suddenly so slow?

Then she knew. It was her flight. She was enchanting them, distracting them, making them dizzy. She was flying in circles, drawing pictures to take their attention away.

Enchantment by illusion is foolish. We have to be ruthless! Akera caught glimpses of her friends, half-there, half-watching, like children at a show. The Mage snapped her eyelids shut.

No, no questions. She's trying to make us forget to fight. No mercy. No mercy.

The next spell rose suddenly along the length of her staff—a spark on a dynamite fuse, threading itself like a golden bead from her fingers up to the tip of the weapon, spitting sparks into the air. She thrust the weapon upwards—and a pattern of fire erupted from its point, flowering overhead.

Everyone was still for involuntary seconds, watching. Spirals of flame, like the paths of the vultures, like the circlets of the Goddess. The battlers were caught like fish in a net of stars, and now she knew it was time to shatter the spell—

EXPLOSION—

And she had thought victory hers.

But an instant before the spell peaked, Veriun shot upwards, a hopelessly daring move the Mage had thought—before thundering currents of wind exploded from the horse's wings, roaring around Akera in an intangible dome so the flames could only curl inwards upon their creator. Her eyes flew open a split second early, barely in time for her to gasp, no, throw up her arms, and defend herself from her own attack.

The sky cracked, opened right out, her flames tearing the air. When they dwindled, and as the blaze dissipated, she glanced about in momentary relief—and shrieked.

A streak of metal, shooting through the fading smoke. A blade-point like a lightning bolt, far too fast—a straight, sharp jab of pain in her left shoulder—

Before her next thought hit her, curtains of green light were suddenly dancing up around her, the wound closing. She gasped from the vigour suddenly returning—and at once her lucidity struck her like a slap. "It'd be great if the rest of you could help too!" she exclaimed. "You'll cover the holes that I can't. Interlock your vision with everyone else's, fight in a space where you know someone else is blind—"

Deina had swooped up in their moments of distracted learning, circling beneath the balcony and rising in a steep swerve from behind, halberd outstretched and crackling.

But they were ready now. Telida was the one who caught her, vision ambient, reflexes lightning. The instant she noticed the guardian's approach from behind, she sprang and somersaulted fiercely, dodging the bolt and firing five stars backwards in the seconds she was upside-down—

All six turned. Four stars spun away with terrifying swiftness, striking her armour, ricocheting uselessly with bright pings.

But the fifth, the fifth made a miraculous arc that slotted the projectile straight through a gap in the woman's neck armour. Half a second later, a deep cut had been slit, and a rapid gush of glowing silver blood came flooding through the newly-opened wound.

Deina gasped. Ahead of her Telida landed, back facing the minor deity, her boots not sliding an inch as she turned smartly around and appraised her work.

This is the chance! came the realisation. Akera quickly nodded to the rest, aware that the battle had hardly ended. Zethis was the one to make the leap this time, surprises of surprises. Despite her wound, Deina grinned at the sight of the golden Judgment. They played the game for a while. But soon she had had enough, and she swooped in a dizzying spiral, descending with ease like a falcon on its prey, weapon flung out in the same deadly attack that had caught Akera in the shoulder—

Then arrived the return.

Raydan shouted in triumph, moments before two blazing Soul Arrows twanged from his crossbow and found marks in Veriun's neck. "Gotcha!" he yelled. With a siren-like whinny, the horse reared in midair and began to spiral through the air, crunching hard into the white stones, and Deina with her.

And at the sight of the fallen bodies, Akera sprang into attack by instinct, and all around her the rest were doing the same—Telida with her pocket daggers, Zethis' mace flashing in the sun, Ketara twisting the winds with his spear—with a speed that gave Deina no chance to respond.

Somehow it hurt Clynine to know that the woman had no time to tend to her mount. But she knew that Orion's Belt's success also hinged on Deina's defeat, and they could offer no mercy in exchange for their world's redemption.

No mercy.

The woman was into the fight again, too strong despite her mortal wound. Her polearm crashed against mace and spear, such a valiant fight for someone so small, so defenceless, so handicapped.

Clynine couldn't bring herself to move forward. She watched as Lanoré tore down the woman's defences with rapid ease, lightning jerking her to a standstill every five seconds for the melee attackers to make their strikes. Veriun raised her head to cry, and let it fall again, tail flicking in helpless despair.

The Cleric closed her eyes to its plight. There was no time to let mercy delude her.

But…this isn't mercilessness. It's injustice. The horse never did any wrong. Deina never did anything wrong. They're just doing their job, the job they were locked here to perform, forever.

"Clynine! You irresponsible idiot! Come here and heal us!" gasped Lanoré furiously, eyes wide as the halberd caught the corner of her chin.

The battle had proceeded to the edge of the balcony. At once Clynine felt a vast dizziness engulf her—then a voice called again: Zethis moaning within the next clamour of metal. Horrified, the Cleric squeezed her eyes shut and ran. Heal! she called silently, and watched as green lights gathered around the rest.

Morale boosted by a row of sudden fortunes, the battle grew more violent, the guardian falling back, further, further, further. The edge was coming so close, the steep drop to nowhere, the drop that Veriun couldn't save her mistress from any longer…

But she was spared that fate. "Genesis!" Clynine screamed.

Deina, undefeatable Deina, gave a cry as she was flung to the ground by a blast of angelic light, her weapon ringing on the stones as she moaned in the flame. With a gasp of guilt, Clynine ran forward, dragging the others away from the edge. Amidst them lay the guardian—body crumpled, lips pale. She struggled and rose slightly on her elbow, reaching out for them, a hand that was ignored.

"Come, let's go," was Akera's command, and they raced away, as the guardian cried in dismay and watched them disappear through the window.

The shadows parted, and they breathed in surprise. A broken chandelier lay on the floor as they entered.

Come, came a whisper down the airways. Bring Darkness to me.

The doorway was at the top of the wall, but accessing it would be no problem—Deina had carved her own footholds in the walls. One after another they climbed towards the doorway, ascending the overturned staircases towards the roar of the upside-down ocean above.

Come, Light called.

At last, they emerged from the last flight of stairs and set foot in the top room—and fell into reverent silence. Through the windows shone a sunlit ocean, an ocean that flooded through the doorway to lap at the ceiling and the stone benches, spraying against the walls.

A ray of light caught Zethis' eye. He turned—a blinding beam of sunlight streamed from the far corner of the room, where a diamond-shaped hole had been cut, filtering through the dust to touch the facing wall.

And at their feet, the ground was all water—all except for a narrow ledge around the edges. In the centre of the pool was a lit chandelier, faceted diamonds sparkling in the brilliance of its candles. This one was special. It hadn't fallen; it floated vertically upwards from within the pool, as if gravity were still pulling from above.

"Well, so you see it," came a sudden whisper from the doorway above. "If you want the Shard, the ray must touch the chandelier, then the chandelier must be extinguished."

Everyone turned—in the doorway stood a panting Deina, now climbing down the wall in awkward bumps and drops. She was haggard from the battle, hair tangled and stained silver, Veriun leaping down through the doorway after her. But she could smile.

"What you've managed is marvellous, but now you must test Time and Fate. On the day when the Shard is meant to be taken, the sun will align itself so the ray will touch the chandelier. But to take it, you cannot touch the water. It is merciless to sinner and sin, and I learnt that the painful way…"

"Sinner?" murmured Akera suddenly, before turning with suspicion in her eyes. Zethis thought he might melt, the way her light of her blue eyes slashed through him, then shifted to the next. Somehow, he feared he knew what she was thinking—and almost too quickly, he was proven right.

"This has to be why our guild members were chosen this way!" she concluded, walking towards them, fixing her gaze irremovably upon Clynine. "Clynine, it has to be you—Grendel called you 'pure' once. You are the one meant to retrieve the last piece. You must go across the water, to the chandelier."

From the back of the group, Clynine gasped. "But it can't be!" was her defence. "When I joined, I was never supposed to be anything more than—" She froze, painfully long.

"…more than…Lanoré's servant, wasn't I?"

Zethis turned, and saw the terror in those wide brown eyes—and at once, he knew he could not leave her to take this alone. He walked quickly over, took hold of her hand between his palms, and closed his eyes. "Clynine, don't feel forced to do this," he whispered. "But if you can—it's the only way we will win."

Clynine's eyes softened, and she smiled a little. "It's always you," she murmured. "You're always the one saving me. Like a knight and his princess, almost…" Withdrawing her hand, she turned around and nodded to Akera, taking her staff.

And on the Cleric went, step after confident step, on towards the pure pool at the heart of the room.

clynine: the cathedral bell

As Clynine approached the stone bank of the water pool, she touched a foot to its surface, and leapt away when all she felt was an icy sheet, like glass.

Am I sinless then? This cannot be…

She could feel seven gazes trained upon her. Swallowing from nerves, Clynine took her first step into the water, allowing her full weight to rest on it; she cried out as her feet shook slightly, breeze stirring the water—but soon it returned to stillness, and the only sound was the tide overhead.

Braver now, the young Cleric continued to walk. She held her breath, hoping that there were no surprises waiting. Her footsteps grew gentle, and she shivered from the cold…

Now, something did happen.

It didn't surprise her at first. The water beneath her feet began to glow from under the surface, but it failed to perturb the Cleric. On she walked, continuing to be unsurprised, though the waves were rising and her footing slipped a little, the waves growing a little waxy in texture—

Then she wasn't ready for the next thing that happened.

Plinggg.

The water shattered, and she screamed. From the hold of the disintegrating surface broke a golden beak, a spire-like beak that caught fire—swelling, swelling into the vast shape of a firebird exploding from its eggshell of ice—its blazing wings bloomed, and with a fling it threw Clynine to her knees, shrieking from pain.

"Help!" she screamed, thrashing as the flames began to circle and rear, struggling to her feet only to be thrown down again and again. "Save me!"

Deina was suddenly beginning to panic, her breathless cries echoing across the water. "No! Lyssa, get down! Don't hurt her!" screamed the woman, running, running, stretching a futile hand.

Lyssa was only heedless, her beak-jaws parting to speak. As her Voice came forth, flames erupted from her serrated beak, roaring straight over the Cleric's head in a violent crackle that made her scream again.

SINLESS?

YOU?

Clynine pulled hands over her head, shivering, curling up. "Yes!" she pleaded. She had to believe, believe or burn away. "I am sinless! I am!"

But the bird goddess was not convinced. With a snarl, her feathers began to lengthen into tendrils—growing, extending, coming to circle her—tighten around her—seep into her skin. Probes.

And in the fire, Clynine thought she was dying. She felt her muscles losing their strength, her Petal Staff falling to the water with a great tinkling splash—sinking away into the water, her fingers paralysed and powerless to snatch for it. She squirmed as much as her paralysis would allow—but she could not move, could not scream. Fire shifted through her, caustic and ticklish and nauseating—testing every inch of her body and soul, searching, searching, searching…

A pause too long.

The flame festered in her ribcage.

In that very second, Clynine knew that she had failed.

LIAR!

Jaws parting, melting, solidifying into the echoes of hell. The bird roared into her face, eyes flaring, hot breaths singing her skin.

HOW DARE YOU LIE TO A GODDESS?

YOU HAVE SINNED! YOU LIED THAT YOU HADN'T, BUT YOU HAVE!

Suddenly, its grip swelled a hundredfold—the pain tore Clynine's skull apart; she could only scream again. It crept through her head, crept, crept, spinning and twisting, wrenching memories from the bed of her dreams—burning them into her eyes.

Images of a tall woman with blonde hair and sapphire eyes, blinking sadly. Images of a smile lost forever.

And the Cleric's eyes could only go wider and wider as her soul began to break down, and her heart began to sink into listless reminiscence.

She couldn't deny it, not any longer. She couldn't deny this burning pain in the back of her throat, every time she thought of the way she had cursed the woman who had saved her life.

YOU HAVE, HAVEN'T YOU?

The Cleric shivered. The words were expanding all around her like coiling snakes, drowning every other sound out—strangling her. She pulled her hands over her ears to block them out, but the words slipped inwards anyway. They continued to echo. Darker than bloodstains.

This is what you're like to your parents too, isn't it? Why else did you leave them to slog it out in their dingy little workshop at home, anyway?

Down she went, clawing at her face so her fingers grew warm and wet. With what? Blood? Tears?

"I'm sorry—" she tried to cry. "I—I—didn't mean—"

You thought they were SERVANTS! I'm not your assistant—I'm your SERVANT! I never asked for this!

"Lanoré!" she shrieked breathlessly, burying her face in open palms—but even now she knew crying was useless! "Please forgive me—I never meant it—"

No time to listen to apologies. No time for pointless mercy.

LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!

In her constant screams, Clynine felt the water crumble beneath her. She felt her robes being soaked and dragged into the iciness, into shadows and lights and flickering ribbons, solid no more. She felt water rising around her like a wave, water closing over her head like a dome.

Then she the flames, swelling and shearing the water away, somewhere high above. A beak of burning knives stabbed itself into the waves and plummeted after her, vaporising the water, plunging through the light, a raptor for its prey. She heard screams, but Clynine couldn't care—the inferno was drawing closer to snatch her up, ready to rip her heart from her chest and relish it.

And in this spiralling chaos that left her thoughts no room, her mind could only hold one simple sentence:

I'm sorry, Lanoré.

And then, the thunder flooded the Cleric's ears.

Until then, her body had been expecting to be ripped open by infernal saws and razor wings. Even now, she thought these spasms were from the pain of burning beneath the murderer's knife, of being slashed into pieces, again, and again, and again.

But it was only lightning.

Lightning, like a blade in the firebird's heart.

In skeins of ripping screams, the blazing creature descended towards the pool, smoking, whirling, plummeting in a death spiral. Water broke beneath its impact, thrown like handfuls of diamonds to the walls. The monster shrieked brokenly, erratically in the pool of its own shame, feathers melting.

In the dizzying lights that flashed across her vision, the Cleric gasped and splashed—dragging herself to the surface, towards the bank, kicking with deep watery breaths though her robes were tangled around her legs—kicking and swimming furiously, coughing the freezing water up.

"Clynine!"

Through the fog of exhaustion, a woman's cry resounded softly into her ears.

"This doesn't have to be, Clynine!"

She was silent, gasping. Lanoré, the name struck instantly. Lanoré. Lanoré. A chant.

Her eyes began to water painfully, with more than just the sea-spray. She kicked blindly forward again, every movement a little stronger than the one before, heart bursting with need.

Lanoré, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to save me again.

Faintly she felt the rocky ledge beneath her fingers. Almost immediately, strong hands came to catch her by the arms, hauling her out of the water—and Clynine found her vision filled with the smiling countenance of her mistress, brilliant eyes that somehow hadn't died despite the sadness there.

"M-mistress—I—"

In her shock, she couldn't find the right words to say—but the woman was faster, faster as always.

"Clynine, it doesn't have to be like this," answered the Archmage desperately, silvery smile waning. "I didn't realise, Clynine, I didn't know…"

Clynine would hear none of it. She wouldn't hear Lanoré apologise.

Crying out something unintelligible, she launched herself forward to embrace her mistress. "I'm sorry, Lanoré! I'm sorry about everything!"

"But there's no need to be sorry!" The woman answered, taking Clynine's shoulders as their eyes met for the first time in a month. "You never did any wrong. I did all the wrong. I thought the Neck was trying to destroy me. But in fact, it was only awakening my buried fears." She turned, away. "I was afraid, Clynine."

Lanoré suddenly looked so fragile, her face all tense and struggling like that. "I was afraid you'd leave me. I was afraid you'd stop needing me! Because…no one's made me feel this necessary before. Even my parents. I thought they didn't need me, so I left them behind." She actually sobbed this time, but that was that. "Tossed aside—by the girl they protected all their lives."

Her eyes closed, and her words became a whisper, like dewdrops in the morning, wishing off the edges of the grass. "I was afraid to lose you, Clynine, the way my parents lost me."

But I won't leave you, thought the Cleric, sinking into Lanoré's arms again, her eyes clouding up with pain. You're the one who's made me feel needed. I used to feel completely useless, sitting around and waiting to be married off. You made me feel like I could actually do something! You gave me a direction to go, a path to walk!

I didn't want to be trapped forever. You released me, Lanoré...

Both were aware of the flames stirring behind them, and in the next second, they had parted—fire was beginning to roar again, rising from the pit. Lanoré held her staff high, turning swiftly to her assistant. "This doesn't have to be your fight alone, Clynine," she said, earnestly, fiercely. "We can finish it the way we always meant to. Just you and I, and a world to conquer."

They turned together, and Clynine felt her hands tingle with the magic she had learnt to master without her staff. And in her mistress' presence, she knew she could do anything.

The great shape of the firebird loomed again, blazing and crackling like a vast monster. Lyssa roared and expanded, expanded till her wingtips touched the water and set it fizzling with heat, steam billowing outwards.

"Remember that day with Zakum and the fire?" called Lanoré now, as her staff rose, and blue sparks began to travel up its length, gathering at the tip.

"Yes I remember," called Clynine in response, her palms held out, circles of light swooping inwards from the ambience and gathering into a concentrated source before her hands. "We nearly died—but you saved my life that day, didn't you?"

Lanoré's ice was heavenly bright. But her smile was even brighter.

"No, you saved me."

Then they gave cries of their own, glorious heralding cries, of Blizzard and of Shining Ray—and in their shared confidence, light and ice began to rage mercilessly down in a storm upon the bird. The bird, which soared in a distressed circle and rippled hopelessly through the spells, struggling forward, struggling still…

Lanoré cried out louder. Her Blizzard became an entire river of shards, shooting like missiles into the gaps between its thin guard feathers, lodging themselves into its skeleton—

It screeched, wheeling and crying, bursts of fire exploding everywhere. Fading, fading, fading. And as it began to wane in the onslaught, a halo bloomed around it, an aura of golden flame that solidified into five rectangles of light, rectangles that forced the creature inwards, a star collapsing upon itself…

In that instant, everything reversed direction. Attacking projectiles were frozen in midair. There was the twanging hum of impact—and suddenly everything was soaring in the opposite direction. A supernova, from within the chaos—nowhere, everywhere, shards of fire and waves of water exploding outwards through the room and breaking its stones in shock waves like the birth of a sun, or perhaps the death of a star.

Clynine threw up her light defences in split-second reflex—a hundred magic shields that healed her ten thousand times a second while fire was shooting in burning lines everywhere, windows blooming to the sky...

It was surreal, feeling the flames bombard her from everywhere—each individual fragment burning a patch her skin away before her magic rushed to the wound and sealed it up a second later. The continuous sensation, of rushes of new wounds, opening, closing, all over her skin, was utterly horrible. It seemed forever, longer than forever. The Cleric thought she might die waiting, thought the shield might suddenly buckle beneath the impacts and collapse, and leave her open to the endless assault of burning bullets. But every second, she squeezed just a little more mana from her reserves; every second, she told herself that she had to cling to her life with whatever she had…

And at last, it ended.

Sudden as the rise of Lyssa, the flames subsided into the dark. Clynine couldn't stop shaking as she crawled to kneel, glancing wearily about to see the broken walls. Then, she felt exhaustion catch hold with a grip of lead, sinking her back to the ground.

Where had the flames gone? Their imprints were still vivid in her eyes, blinding her. The silence was unnerving, except for the moans of her friends in the corner. There could have been full serenity...

Then, a shot of panic.

Lanoré. Where's Lanoré?

She whirled around and panted.

Lanoré!

Her eyes skimmed messily across the ruins until they came to a tangled figure beside the wall. Clynine thought she might faint. Lanoré, lying between the fallen rocks, mouth open and face raw from the heat.

The explosion had gone in a particular direction. At Lanoré, unsuspecting Lanoré who hadn't had enough time to switch from attack to defence…

"Lanoré!" screamed Clynine, dragging herself through splinters of sooty rock. She didn't care for the cuts or blood any longer. The woman wasn't breathing. Screeching her despair, the Cleric slapped her, hit her, again and again—to no merciful avail. "Lanoré, Lanoré...wake up! Please, Lanoré…" Suddenly, in the face of death, she was only a girl who didn't know what to do. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, to her lips, her chin, into her robes. "Lanoré! Mistress Lanoré!"

Then, almost as fast, reality caught up to her. She wiped the tears quickly away, trying not to sob. She had learnt how to do it, how to defy death.

Must a human die before you learn to perform a simple, pathetic Resurrect, Clynine?

Clynine found herself smiling sadly, at the anger with which those words had been shouted. The irony was chilling. Maybe so, she thought, gazing down at those dead eyes. Maybe this is how I'll learn.

I can't let you go this easily, Lanoré.

Glancing about for a minute, she caught sight of a glint beneath the rocks—it was her Petal Staff. Slipping quickly over to snatch it, Clynine felt its warmth in her hand, before turning urgently back to Lanoré. As her staff extended, her fingers began to grow warm with the half-power that remained within her. She felt the syllables rise to her lips, simple and clear. She let herself pronounce them.

"Resurrect."

Sky, sky once more. The ocean was churning half a mile down, the waves white and arcing like doorways to heaven, the sands sparkling like a vast crescent of ivory.

Lanoré's soul was nowhere to be found. The harbour was empty; the corridors had been deserted and the beach was pale.

She had gone on. She was heading to the far shore, just like all the other souls.

Turning to the ocean with a shiver, Clynine saw that she was atop a cliff. For seconds, gazing down the height at the waves below made her head spin—it was high, so high—would she fall off if she took a wayward step?

But to catch Lanoré and bring her back, she had to take that step. She had to cross the ocean. The fear made her feel all hollow inside—nothing to hold onto, no hand to grip, no friend to hug.

I'm afraid, Lanoré. I'm afraid of being alone, afraid to cross the sea.

Then, silently, she remembered another time when she had stood at the edge of the sky, just as she did now. She remembered so vividly; she remembered being afraid of the drop to the bottom. But she hadn't been alone—Zethis had been beside her, facing the icy wind with her …

If she didn't have any hand to hold, she could hold on to this memory. Bravely, Clynine breathed, in, out. In, out. Just like Lanoré taught me. To still my fears.

Then, with a blind leap and spread arms, Clynine rose on the wind, the wind that was eternal, and soared away with the shadows of the sky.

Every second of the flight was a horror. All around her she could only feel the freewheeling winds buffeting her, taking her left and right with invisible, violent currents. There were spikes beneath the water beneath, spikes of ocean that she feared she might impale herself upon—if she fell too close and was claimed by the tides, if she flew too far and melted in the flame of the sun. The listless flight had lasted minutes, hours—and Clynine was beginning to fear that all was lost.

Then…there came a call, a call from far away—the soft and secretive chime of a cathedral bell in the middle of the sea, a voice sunken in the waves by seagulls that didn't understand.

Dong.

Each note was poignant and clanging, far away but true. The toll of death, or maybe the toll of hopelessness. But whichever it was, every sheer note made the girl think of her mistress.

Lanoré.

Clynine found a grip on her courage. She flew closer and closer, until the bell's resonance was all around her, engulfing her in its shivery embrace, ringing in the sea-spray that splashed her face.

This is where I dive, and never look back.

She dove.

Waves, blue and vivid, came to swallow her—cold and glassy, seeping to her bones and gripping her from all around. She gasped out and splashed a little, body forcing her instinctually to the surface—it took all her will to hold onto the sound like a strand of rope, and plunge forth regardless.

Then, she found that she could still breathe, her lungs filling up with a fresh breath, not water, when she tried. Bubbles raced from her lips to the surface. Beneath her, the girl could see the silhouette of a grand building with a tapering steeple—a cathedral, vast and still in the currents of the ever-changing sea.

Down Clynine swam, to where the bell was swinging, landing on the parapet of the belltower and gazing inside. To her surprise, there was brightness in the room beneath—a figure shimmering with an elusive light, tugging hypnotically at the bell rope.

Dong, dong, dong. It was like the call of a whale.

Lanoré! Clynine called—and stopped mid-breath because she felt like her chest was being ripped apart, blood blossoming from her lips into the waves. The call became a scream; she collapsed to her knees on the granite ledge. Lanoré—come back with me—

Across the wall she clambered, leaping inside to land by her mistress. The walls were close to the pair, and there wasn't a sound besides that grand ringing.

Lanoré!

The woman turned, face pale, half-illusory. I can't go either way, she whispered. I want to stay here forever, in liminality between death and life. I don't want to go back home, or go to heaven.

In those words, Clynine was suddenly growing furious. Downright furious at her mistress, this mistress who wouldn't let go of a stupid sea for her assistant. Furious at Lanoré for leaving. Leaving her in the lurch. Leaving her to be lonely until she died.

Lanoré! She shrieked, angry tears rising. Why, Lanoré? You can't do this!

But she was unmoved. Because sometimes, you have to learn to let go. Sometimes, it's hard to stay alive when no one wants you or needs you. I abandoned the people I loved, and so I will be abandoned likewise—and I'm glad I died, but I don't need heaven.

The girl found her anger falling, falling into a quiet sort of understanding.

The Archmage hadn't been forgiven in the heart. Did ghosts forget so fast? Lanoré hadn't been forgiven, somehow—the guilt was still there, deep as ever. And no, she couldn't let the woman go on thinking this way. It wasn't right. It wasn't true. And most of all, Clynine needed her back, more than anything else.

Lanoré, Lanoré… Before she could flee, the girl reached out to grip her mistress' hand. Lanoré, didn't I say it's okay…?

Lanoré let go of the bell rope for a moment—and this moment was all the Cleric needed. Without another second, she kicked off the stone floor of the belltower with all her strength, and her mistress gasped as they soared off together, up through the sparkling ocean tides, up towards that heavenly circle of brilliance above.

Where are you taking me, Clynine?

Lanoré, don't drown in this ocean! It's made of sorrow and memory. It lies to you. There's more above! Have you never tried looking at the world above, breathing its air, tasting how wonderful it is?

Clynine made a final pull, wings uninhibited by water. They emerged, and Lanoré's eyes widened at the sight of the sky, her gaze so enraptured it made Clynine's heart leap.

Then, slowly, she pulled away from the cerulean above, looked down at the waves around her.

I like this place, the dead Archmage murmured. Why can't you just leave me? Does anyone really need me? Why let me live, if I'm just a useless woman who doesn't know...how to love? Her voice was growing wispier, fading like mist as she drew away. Clynine snatched angrily at her hand, but Lanoré continued to pull back.

Why can't you leave me?

Clynine's heart sank at those words. No! Something rang defiant in her mind. Didn't I promise to bring her back? I have to try again—try, if only so that the effort counts! Try!

She clenched her fists, closed her eyes—then opened them again.

Because…you aren't where you think you are, answered the girl, floating forward, little by little, reaching out. This is only a shadow of the truth. This isn't the joy you want! This world is wonderful, but it can't offer you the most wondrous thing in the world—

Love. There's love waiting for you here, Lanoré… Mistress Lanoré. Here in my hand—love, from the ones you left behind.

Then a jab of pain came as the realisation struck.

You left me behind, Lanoré. Just like you left your parents.

And Clynine must have said those words aloud—for suddenly, Lanoré was blinking, drifting closer with eyes full of fright—and then she was crying, crying like the child she had never been. Or perhaps had been once, and would never be again.

She turned away, to the sky, fingers outstretched so they were silhouettes. Her sobs hadn't really died, but her figure was steely, stubborn. Clynine— She murmured, voice gaining colour, wracked with fear. Are you sure? Don't they…hate me? Don't they?

No! We don't hate you, Lanoré! We love you. Need you. Without you, the flowers of El Nath cannot bloom. The city will die. El Nath was frozen centuries ago—but can't you can be the one to unlock it from the ice?

Lanoré's eyes were closed. Her face found a little more colour, her hair some of its former gold—maybe it was the sound of her sad laughter, maybe the way she was smiling, tears glittering in her eyes. Their hands were in each other's; the woman's in the girl's, grips so tight, both certain that they would never, never let go again.

"Clynine," Lanoré said—with a real voice, a voice that reminded her of snow and sunlight and roses from the world above. "Clynine, you saved me."

The sky came to an end. The firmament began to disintegrate at the edges, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, falling into Clynine's eyes—and she was descending, descending into fond, distant dreaming, somewhere deep in the ocean she had left behind.

"How is she?"

"Breathing."

"Um, anything else?"

"I don't think so; not for now."

All was no longer silence, in the tower of light. Lanoré stood groggily, blinking, rising carefully to her feet with tipsy steps. Four of the eight were gathered around Clynine's petite figure, asleep on the floor. She could have been dead, the way she was tangled around the stone shards and pools of water, arms spread like a bird's—but her chest was rising, falling, a breath that somehow couldn't lose its beat.

The other four were elsewhere, gazing at the pool of water, snowflakes descending through the broken wall to land on the surface.

Overhead, the firebird's glowing rectangles had turned into mirrors. Five mirrors, floating in midair. They had arranged themselves in such a way that the stream of light, frail but undefeatable, now twisted and spiralled around the room, bouncing against them, dancing through the motes of ocean dust until it finally came to shine upon the uppermost arms of the chandelier.

Something was forming on the ocean surface above—a reflection of their brilliance, a formless brightness.

Akera's eyes were upon the chandelier again, on its reflection in the sea above, her gaze taking in its every divine drop. She took a tentative step onto the water—found that it accepted her weight, like any other floor.

Lanoré closed her eyes, for suddenly, she could hear its voice again.

Take me to Light, the Neck whispered, weak and tame and yearning now. Dark and Light, we must be together. Take me to Light...take me to him...

Akera had arrived at the chandelier, her fingers almost glowing in its light. Gently, she reached in between its branches—and sprang back again in surprise as the lights suddenly began to extinguish themselves, like flowers closing.

When all the candles had gone out and all the gold subsided into misted greys, a glimmer of light made everyone looked up. They gasped, smiled—for the reflection of the chandelier lights, glowing in the water on the ceiling, hadn't vanished. It seemed almost real, almost there…

"Isn't it amusing, how illusion makes fools of everyone?" From behind, Deina's voice suddenly came again as she strode to the centre, where Akera stood. "These images of light are such beauty: because what light can form, light can certainly falsify. And isn't it strange, that we believe so unwaveringly in everything light presents to us? Seeing is believing, isn't that so?"

She turned around at the rest, smiling to herself, as with a joke only she understood. "As far as you are concerned, everything inside a mirror, a reflection, is just an image—formed when light traces an object that doesn't really exist, and tells you it is there. But if a reflection is false, if you know it's false, then what is this world? Where are you now? You fell into a mirror to come here—are you walking in an image right now?"

Her smile began to fade. "That's the strange thing about magic, the strange thing about the power of the Goddess of Light. The moment She bestowed it upon us, She made it possible to turn falsity into reality."

The millennia-old guardian suddenly seemed so sad. "And this is what I've waited for all my life. The day when someone would extinguish the lights and turn these pictures into real magic. It's come. Lyssa has offered her treasure—my treasure—to you."

And taking a last silent glance into the chandelier's reflection, Deina flung her halberd upwards. It slipped into the ocean, passing through until it shattered the image-chandelier to pieces and sent a tiny glass piece rippling through the water, falling into her hand with a light pling.

Simply, the woman gestured for Lanoré to come—Lanoré, who now cradled Clynine's sleeping body in her arms. The guardian held the Shard out for the Archmage as she approached. The Shard of the Goddess' blood, in all its glory.

Take me to Darkness.

Lanoré smiled as her fingers closed around the glowing glass shard. And with a strange regret, she pried it gently from Deina's grip…

All at once, a guttural rumbling began in the rock beneath their feet. The floor began to buckle and everyone staggered in fright, as white stone began to rain from the ceiling, like snow.

"By the Goddess! What's happening?" cried Raydan, hugging Ketara for his dear life; the Dragon Knight returned it, equally frightened. The six visitors were staring at each other in panic, Lanoré included. The Shard had been taken. The tower was collapsing. And all logic told them that if they stayed any longer, they would fall away with it…

Deina glanced about at the walls, but there was fearlessness in her gaze. Calling Veriun with a small cry, she limped over to meet the beast in the middle of the breaking floor. She hugged the horse's neck, rubbing her cheek against her muzzle—and with the last of her gracefulness, mounted her.

But why was she mounting? Veriun's wings were broken. Veriun couldn't fly.

The floor at the horse's hooves suddenly began to crack and crumble, segments beginning to drop away into the endless sky beneath. Veriun reared and bucked, clattering back from the rift in fright. "You'll be fine!" cried Deina across the growing gap as wind began to buffet up through the cracks of the floor and whip through their hair. "Everything keeping this world real is fading! Remember, once the source is gone, this reality returns to illusion—and you cannot exist within an illusion!"

Already, a vast slice of sky was showing, dividing them from flightless Deina forever. "Deina!" screamed Telida, despairing. The woman was already beginning to fall, the black winged horse instinctually scrabbling at the rocks with screaming whinnies for a nonexistent foothold, for another chance to live.

"You'll be fine, and so will I!" was her unfailingly faithful answer, as she descended away.

But faith is the flimsiest foundation for truth, thought Akera.

And then came the great wave. A vast, white wave of collapsing snow, the foundation of the world and every whisper upon which this illusion had been built. Down it all came, crashing through the storeys of the tower, shoving everyone apart in an explosion of utter unreal cold and shimmering, shattering glass—

And everything built on faith eventually crumbles, thought Akera again, eyes closing as the wall of snow came to collide with her.

White. Pale. Endless light.

Nothing.

Through the vast rumble of the stones and silence, through the ethereal thunder of ice, there came a strain of hopeful song.

I may dream and weave and sing

And then you might know everything…

the fire never dies

Clynine's eyelids urged her to blink. She did.

And suddenly, she found herself awake on pale sheets, facing a ceiling that seemed shockingly familiar. The taste of her long sleep was still sluggishly sweet on her tongue, and for seconds she began to wonder. What had she been doing before this?

Then she turned her head, and heard an exclamation of joy, felt someone's warmth draw closer to hers—the cloudy vagueness of his figure slowly clarifying, solidifying into Zethis, with his blonde hair and gentle smile. "W...where..." Clynine's mouth opened, but the words were hard to shape. Sighing, she abandoned the effort and let herself sink back into half-consciousness. "How long?"

"Four days," answered Zethis. "Lanoré said your healing is keeping you well, but you—"

Lanoré! All at once the memory of her mistress came pounding through her veins—the fight, the flames, the light and the ocean… "Zethis, how'd I get here?"

"Deina gave the Shard to Lanoré, then the tower began to collapse—and next moment, we were standing on the top level of real Orbis Tower, as if nothing had happened, with a pile of broken glass before us..."

Clynine nodded slowly, mind resistant to her attempts at sense-making, eyes no longer able to stay open. "And oh, yes," she whispered. "Whose room am I in?"

"M—ine," answered the White Knight, embarrassed suddenly. "We-we-we just didn't want to—to take your key…and I had to answer Linn's questions…a-and…I didn't have t-time—"

"It's alright. Thanks." A soft smile lit her lips. The job is done. And Zethis is here. This thought was like hot chocolate, and it soothed her into another deep sleep.

Akera was taking a weary stroll—after all the tension in the mirror Orbis Tower, she had to ease her twanged nerves.

As her eyes rose to the evening horizon ahead, the Mage paused. The silhouette of someone—two someones, approaching. Two familiar someones.

And it froze her rigid.

Ralinn and Shirion. They were walking towards her, hands intertwined, walk a little tipsy, arms touching, as close as touching allowed. Outright mush.

But it wasn't the mush that made something twist in the wrong direction in Akera's heart. It was the expression on Shirion's face. An expression he'd never show her. An expression he had reserved for his darling little Ralinn.

Something vile and sly had taken root black in her heart. Jealousy. Jealousy, that was it. Jealousy, because of what she would never have.

And twist her it did, this unending tug, tug, tug of anger and frustration and hate that went on in binding circles—twist her, like a rope that had already been twisted to its maximum strain—

Someday, it was going to snap.

Something was bubbling in her throat already, the same poisonous anger she always felt when she saw those two together. But today was different—today, she was edgy from weariness. Today, the sight of them had opened a door.

Even as she waited, she could feel her body shaking with deeply-swallowed rage—rage that had to come out someday. Heedlessly, they smiled at each other and walked on. And she craned her neck, as the pair passed, to hear snatches of their conversation: I think…I know the answer now, Shirion. Yes…I'll marry you—

Marry him?

A scream ripped itself from Akera's throat, to slice their conversation in two. The pair stumbled to a stop and turned to spy the white-haired youth—rapidly letting go of each other.

"Oh, Akera—"

But she was deaf with pain.

"RALINN!"

From the shadows she stumbled, breathing raggedly and deep, fists curling with fire. Her heart might have been bleeding; it felt like it was, as if a dagger had been plunged deep inside by those two pairs of eyes…

"No, Akera, don't be rash here, we understand—"

No. No—no, no, no! Nothing you say is important! Stupid woman!

She screamed again. The two began to look perturbed, Ralinn stepping forward a little angrily, tongue ready to deliver a firm scolding to her underling. Beneath that amber gaze, Akera felt as if she were being clawed to death—she knew she would shrivel up and die, if it went in this way.

She the superior, she the queen, she the authority. Always the authority, the one with every right in the world.

And the Mage suddenly felt needles of poison sprouting, slowly, slowly, from her fingers. Growing, until they were long and lethal. She felt her fingers grip them tightly as they formed—such a warm, molten comfort.

Ralinn's eyes went on mercilessly. The Mage's fingers began to blaze with pain as she tensed them behind her back with all the spinning hurt and fury of half a decade. Of chasing love and letting it be stolen. Of hoping, hoping, only to have it quashed out of her by someone apparently more worthy.

Hah, more worthy?

And her lips twisted into a demon's smile, teeth bared, eyes flashing with fire—with a surge of madness, she brought the needles up into light, panting through her teeth, watching as their points gleamed between their faces.

Suddenly, Ralinn no longer looked angry. She was starting to look afraid, mortally afraid. Stepping backwards with deep, desperate breaths. But that only made the Fire Poison Mage's heart pound with even more greedy relish, with impulse and anger and bloodlust…

"No, Akera, we can talk about this…I know you're intelligent enough to—"

"NO! No, you EVIL WITCH! You took him away from me!"

With a thundering roar, she swung forward, and dug the poisoned needles deep into Ralinn's neck.

Deep as they would go.

The third scream wasn't hers.

Ralinn fell down to her knees, hands shaking as she struggled to hold her balance. Her eyes were rolling as her screams gurgled away, lips frothing and quiveringas she collapsed backwards to the pavement, lips white.

With a cry like a firebird, Akera grinned hungrily. "Have a taste of my pain, Ralinn!" she sneered through tightly-clenched teeth, forcing the needles yet deeper. Ralinn's screams came in short, small bursts, wrangled and wasted and thin, but helpless—helpless…

"Linn!" Shirion had fallen to her side, panting. "Ralinn, no! Please, no!"

No!

No…

And slowly, things were starting to make little fragments of sense to the Mage. Slowly, she realised the meaning of the images that had just passed her by.

And she was shaking, shaking so hard she thought she would shatter in the wind.

Naturally—naturally for someone who had lost all hope and who was watching his lover die—Shirion stood up, drunk and swaying with wrath and fear. Snarling, he turned to the only other person around—the one who had perpetrated it all. And his brown eyes were so dark, so stormy-dark, that Akera suddenly began to feel real fear for the very first time in her life.

"AKERA!" he roared, a roar that could have broken her bones. A lion at the scent of the kill. Sparing her no gentleness—but why should he?—he gripped her by the shoulders and throttled her with all the rage within him, until her shoulders were bruised and her entire being was shivering with unshed tears.

"Akera, if you want me to leave Ralinn and love you, THIS ISN'T THE WAY TO DO IT!"

Akera was too dizzy to comprehend. "No, I didn't—I didn't do this—"

There was nothing left for her to do but lie. Lie and deny. Maybe if she denied forever, it disappear. Her eyes stung, as she screamed it a third time: "I DIDN'T DO THIS!"

Shirion slapped her. Not hard, but hard enough to fill her vision with watery stars and send her collapsing to the floor with blood on her teeth. Whatever anger she might have felt for his deed, she felt not. She felt nothing. She had grown so numb.

"Ralinn, Ralinn, say something. Please, Ralinn."

Finally, Akera's sanity had returned—cold, broken sanity that cut her like shards of a broken mirror. Above the roar of her tears, she could hear her dearestfriend whispering his hopeless assurance—you'll be fine, my dear, I swear you'll be fine. With a held-back sob, he turned and took off across the cobblestone roads with a determination that he would never, ever show for her again.

Now they were alone. The Ranger lay on a bed of white snow, face just as pale as the ice, neck pinpricked with congealed spots of blood, where Shirion had extracted the needles. "Spiteful creature," hissed the woman at Akera, with a hate and poison that might rival her own.

But Akera couldn't take it. No more. No more.

If she heard any more, if she saw any more, she would crumble to dust.

While Ralinn spat another curse at her and the wind became a tomb of glass, Akera pulled her hands over her ears, sewed her eyes shut—and screaming, screaming, she ran away, tears plummeting through the shadows to melt the snow.

She locked herself into her room for the rest of her day, crying her heart out onto white sheets that would be washed clean by tomorrow. Even the news that Ralinn was alive and asleep under the caretaking of Clynine, slipped under her door on the back of a business card in Turino's spiky handwriting, wasn't enough to lure her out.

If Shirion could show me forgiveness, I'd pay for it with my blood. But he won't.

Her body twined deeper into the sheets, a cocoon—she wouldn't leave this white, safe, warm world ever again. She would never have to make another mistake. She should just die here. Let herself bleed out onto these sheets and vanish into them.

And even his forgiveness won't be enough!

What have I done with my life? I murdered my parents! I ran away instead of burying them! Almost killed Turino, almost killed Ralinn, almost destroyed Shirion's life…

…and all because I was angry.

Tomorrow we will leave for Victoria, and when we pass by the Station, it will only serve to remind him of the years he spent, pandering to the whims of a girl who would betray him. Entrusting his life to someone who would later try to kill his lover.

All because she wanted to be his lover herself.

She had scarred her image to the eyes of her friends. She would be an outcast forever—cursed by her very guild mates for her unthinkable deed.

And she had scarred her soul to the eyes of the Goddess. The Lady of Light who sat on her throne of woven gold—She would eternally gaze down upon Akera and her wretched soul, shaking Her head to see the Mage's sorry state. Seeing not her talent, her great deeds, her victories—seeing only a sinner who just couldn't learn.

In Time and Light and Darkness, there is no room for mercy. End is end, and when the blade is lowered, nothing more can be said or done.

The blade had been lowered upon her—upon the half-finished songs she had tried to write, but had lost, and were now fading into meaningless dissonances. The blade had been lowered, and everything in Akera's life had effectively dwindled to nothing.

Because here, in the cold white arena of the deities' council, there was no room for mercy.

No justice, no mercy.

fall

Just as the rumble of rock began, just as the ancient snowflakes began to unravel the tower, Deina finally came to terms with her fate.

This is the second I anticipated, those seven millennia ago, she thought, wind whirling through the castles of her mind. My world is vanishing, and I with it. But at last I'll be free, and at last I'll see the things I've always dreamt of seeing!

And to do that, I must fall.

"Come, Veriun—shush, be quiet. This is the last part of our lives together. But after this, you'll be free, Veriun! All we need to do is jump. And we'll see the world. We'll see what lies on the other side of the sky."

The horse clopped gently to the edge of the falling ledge, led there by her mistress' hand, gazing down at the sky. But Veriun was afraid to jump—she didn't want it, the feeling of falling helplessly. She was a beast of flight.

"We'll be alright, I promise." The guardian hugged the horse's neck and smiling sadly. "We'll be together, and we'll finish this ride with laughter on our wings."

Even if death waits at the end. Even if, seconds after we see the world, we'll vanish forever.

Submitted, subdued, the woman climbed onto Veriun's crippled form, just the way she always had. "This is it, Veriun. The world's about to end. It's the only way home—don't fear!"

The hole in the floor had grown wide. Veriun reared backwards in fear, and Deina had to stroke the beast's neck to pacify her. "You'll be fine!" called the woman to the six on the other side. "Everything keeping this world real is fading! Remember, once the source is gone, this reality returns to illusion—and you cannot exist within an illusion!"

"Deina!" answered Telida from the far bank, eyes flooded with despair. Deina smiled at the young woman and her beautiful voice.

And knowing it the truth, knowing it was the best piece of advice she could give, she shouted, "You'll be fine, and so will I."

For the first time in her life, Deina was certain about something. All her life, she had lived in a white tower—every floor the same as every other, every wall identical to the one above and the one below. All her life, she had lived in an illusion. A lie.

But now she had met them. They had released her from the lie. They had made her realise that this was the amazing truth! And now she would release them, from this world, and from the fear that bound them here.

You can't be afraid to take the leap, because sometimes that's where the answer lies.

It had taken mere seconds. Suddenly, the ground beneath them was gone, and for a nanosecond they were hovering in midair, shadows drifting further and further, snow blooming overhead as the stones gradually cracked apart.

There were no more voices—the seven warriors had vanished from her world behind a curtain of snow. I suppose it's just you and me now, Veriun. In that same nanosecond, Deina began to remember.

A mirror opening beneath me. Veriun taking me safely inside. And the Goddess, the Goddess smiling at me from above as we vanish through the glass, pulling away from the world outside, forever. Certain that this is what we want.

Eyes shut, soul braced, arms locked around her horse's powerful neck, she got ready to unravel that memory back to its start, and finish her story.

She let go.

And suddenly, every fantasy in the world was roaring upwards past their ears. They were plummeting like stones into a pool. Deina let her eyes open—and she couldn't stop seeing after that. The edges of their universe were beginning to crumble, and windows into the other universes were beginning to open in the sky. In those windows, she saw amazing things, horrific things—birds with twenty wings, violet skyscrapers, endless spirals of numeric digits and stars exploding into their rainbows of supernovae. And at every second, she left another world behind, losing each chance to the sky as the windows gradually drew closer and closer together, and melded into a vast well of light at the bottom, far below.

The other side of the sky.

Deina was starry-eyed, her bones and muscles no longer connected because the dimensions were meeting here, and she was disintegrating into the current of zero. Beneath her, Veriun was invisible too—but just like herself, she had not vanished. Something strange that defied the degeneration of the dimensions was still there, unable to be torn apart.

Life. Life, and love. The heartbeat that couldn't fade, though Time and Light and Darkness tried.

I might dream and weave and sing

And then you might know everything

With a deep breath and an exulting cry, Deina threw up her arms with a final strain of song, with every cell in her body, an offering to the world—to the life that could have been, to the life that never was. A farewell, to the world of Life, and the world of Love.

I know this song because I'm a part of Life. The Dragon's song. The song that was imprisoned into every living heart, at the start of His creation.

Someday, I'll be walking in the Dragon's garden—and I will finally have the joy I've been waiting for.

Beneath her, Veriun was whinnying wildly. Somehow, though she had never learnt the language, Deina knew that it was a cry not for fear, but for utter and irreplaceable joy. She felt the same joy spiralling within her like a carousel of colours, and she laughed for this very sensation, the feeling of living the last second of your life in absolute, unbounded freedom.

Then, letting their last fears go, they watched as the universe they had lived in together finally slipped away. Away like a shadow she would never see again—into the endless flickering of a candle, and an explosion of scintillating glass.

So Deina does her job with unwavering faith. But what does she receive? Punishment in isolation. Then death.

Is this not injustice?

But no obligation exists, so why bother? When she's dead and locked in Ayris' sky, the sky of the forgotten, what more can she do but drift around with no will to defend her case?

Disposal is always the best solution to a problem, the deity of questions-and-answers always says. If your question implodes and dies, then there'll be no need to answer it, would there?

And if everyone else agrees to the disposal, then why listen to the one being disposed of?

No justice—of course, no justice. And yet no mercy. In heaven, peace and smooth running are unanimously valued over upkeep of these hindering virtues.

Such as fairness. And forgiveness.

What is the point, indeed? Heaven wasn't made to uphold human happiness. It was made for itself.

Let the tyrant stand. Let them murder each other. It isn't our problem. Let them solve it themselves.

No justice, and yet no mercy.

This is how the world always ends.

I know this chapter wasn't as good as last one, so don't bother telling me so, because reading such criticism gets me down. Also, I don't think I've managed to catch all the errors. If you see typos, do tell me.

If you remember to (in your review), tell me your favourite:

1) Male main

2) Female main

3) Relationship(s).