The sovereign smiles and then, she is gone. The air shakes with the trace of her passage. I notice that my gladiators have gone with her, and so has Makyas.

One by one, the warriors facing us pick themselves up and split, heading deeper into the forest in clumps. Only one stays behind, a man I have faced and failed to kill. His silvery armor shows signs of damage where Sinead’s rapier hit, while his shield looks flayed, gnawed by Rose’s thorns during a heated exchange. Nevertheless, he remains unruffled.

We wait in silence until the last of the warriors has left. When the silence returns to the moonlit meadow, the man bows lightly, keeping his eyes on us as if to challenge us to run. We do not.

“I am Khadras, Seeker of Stolen Memories. Welcome to our Court,” he greets.

His voice is cold and cultured, his traits handsome and somewhat melancholic, from the unsmiling jaw to the thin line of his lips. The pale hair and pink eyes reinforce the appearance of alien aloofness, though the most striking feature is the pair of hare ears jutting up from his skull. They are white and covered in fine hair. They must feel quite fluffy, but I will not attempt to pet them because I am a mature person in control of her own impulses.

Alright, it appears I find him rather charming, now that we are no longer trying to skewer each other.

“I am Ariane of the Nirari,” I greet in return, then I remember those folk tales about not giving an elf one’s true name. Ah, well, I suppose Sinead would have warned me.

I hope.

“Sinead, Prince of Summer,” my guide replies.

“Your task has been chosen,” Khadras explains. “Please follow me. I will assist with its completion.”

Without waiting for our approval, he turns and walks between two dark trees, the shadowy branches forming an arch over his armored figure. Over us, the blood moon lingers, perhaps disappointed that little blood was shed. All those nobles speak adult Likaean. Fortunately, I am able to follow and provide basic answers but I can feel some of the subtext escaping me. Ah, no matter. I have no choice.

We move deeper into the silent forest.

“Any idea what we should expect?” I ask Sinead.

“The Seekers only ever do one thing: retrieve stolen memories. They never act for any other reason, and they always act when this reason is given.”

“We sometimes act for other reasons,” Khadras says from the front. “Though few are foolish enough to give them.”

His voice sounds both sad and mocking.

“The mission of the Seekers is sacrosanct. No one should interfere in any way, including by taking a similar appearance in a cut-off world, apparently,” Sinead says with scorn.

“The girl was taken for one of us and you did not see it fit to correct this misunderstanding,” Khadras retorts.

“Should I take responsibility for the mistakes of others?”

“When you mislead them, you should, Prince of Summer. If you find those terms unacceptable, I can call your mother back.”

“We shall keep our word, thank you,” I interrupt before something unfortunate happens to my essence.

His answer leads to another question.

“If you are the child of a sovereign, does that not make you a prince?” I ask. “Yet you did not present yourself as one.”

“The Seekers have chosen a different path,” Sinead says.

“If you will let me enlighten the outsider child about my own family, child of summer?” Khadras suggests, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh, now you are voluble and prone to explanations?” Sinead replies.

“Enough!” I tell them.

Ugh, they are supposed to be this ancient and mysterious species. Why do I feel like I am dealing with two grumpy teenagers?

“Please tell me of the mission and of the Seekers,” I ask.

Khadras considers my words in silence, then he sighs.

“It will be easier to explain who we are so you understand what we do. We are the Seekers. We have forfeited our royalty, our legacy, so no one could steal what once was ever again. I never was a prince. Mother gave me life long after she took on the crystal.”

“Sinead mentioned a deal before.”

“So he knew you looked like one of us, and did nothing. We must remain inviolate or our sacred mission will be compromised.”

“You have said that before. What is so sacred about stolen memories? Many things get stolen all the time.”

“Memories are different. Memories are the past,” Khadras grumbles. “A long time ago, there was a prince of the Court of Shadows. The prince was weak in body, frail and sickly. He skulked as his kind were wont to do, trying to be forgotten by all so they would not hurt him. One day, he wished a foe had forgotten him. He wished the memory of him left the mind of the foe, just like his presence escaped the attention of others.”

I remember one of their kind, I realize. Mr. Elusive, who helped us free the fae from the Eneru fortress. He could make me forget about him.

What a terrifying ability.

“He wished for the memory to disappear with great desire,” Khadras continues, “and the darkness was with him, and the darkness loved him. It suffused his being with every prayer until, one day, he succeeded. The dark one plucked the memory from his foe’s head and it was no more. And he liked it.”

Khadras turns his head, pink eyes searching for the moon with a peculiar form of longing.

“The dark one found more memories he did not like, and he erased them from the head of their owners. When they were erased from enough minds, from enough meaningful, powerful minds…”

“Then the related events…” I whisper, realizing the implications.

“Were gone, of course. Those who insisted things had happened because the memories remained were scorned and mocked, and the proofs they pursued had disappeared as well. Suddenly, heirs found themselves deposed. Children were never born. All the while, the dark one’s influence grew. With a shadowy hand, he could stop a dynasty without them even being the wiser. A princess might have been beautiful and strong of arms. He might have been unable to face her, but what if she were never born?”

By the Watcher, what a nightmare. All the achievements of someone could be annihilated because someone made it so.

“The past was getting mangled. Cracks opened in reality. But there were some who noticed.”

He stops and turns, his hand grasping at the figure of the moon above the skeletal canopy. Fingers only grasped air. He would never reach it.

“We were hunters then, or so I was told. Our rides lit the skies of every sphere, but the queen saw the spheres unravel and knew something had to be done. She took it upon herself to act. She hunted for a solution and found the Crystal Mind. For a price, it would turn her spirit to perfection. She accepted. She found the traces of the dark one and tracked them back to its source for one last hunt. She found him, weak and mewling under her glare. He died, and the world healed in time. We will never hunt across the skies again. We will never hear the call of the blood moon. Our minds are as crystal, eternal and unbreakable, but cold.”

It is not every day I feel pity. Khadras is not weak. He is strong for a purpose he did not choose, yet must be fulfilled.

“Some of us are old enough to remember the before. I do not know if it is a blessing or a curse.”

There is silence while we walk, then I hear it, barely a whisper.

“I wish I could be angry about it.”

“You are immune whether you want it or not?” I ask.

“Of course. What is immunity, if one can opt out of it? There are so many ways to sway even the most stubborn of fools.”

“Really?” I ask with disbelief.

“When space is vast and time no longer matters, much of what you believe set in stone can be eroded,” Sinead notes in a sober voice.

“And so I cannot be made to feel much.”

“There is no way to avoid the deal at all, I suppose?” I ask.

Khadras faces me, a light sneer in his face, but it disappears when he sees I meant nothing by it.

“Outsider child. I can be a Seeker or I can be nothing at all. The Court of the Blood Moon is gone. So, I am a Seeker. We scour the worlds for those who would rob them of their past. And when we find them…”

The pink of his left eye fades, and I realize it is merely an illusion. His eyeball was torn off and replaced by a sphere of shining diamond. I peer into its depth and recoil, struck by an atrocious pain. It is so vivid that I moan despite the Ekon essence. A crack reopens in my mind palace.

“Ugh, by the Watcher. Makyas must have suffered so much.”

“Mother was merciful. It was very brave of him to face us for you.”

I threw the winged one into the lion’s jaw without realizing it. Between the gladiators and the flutterlings, it appears I have spent the last day charging off a cliff, allies in tow. The spheres are too strange. I must exert greater caution here, before I am truly punished.

By the Watcher, I feel like an ignorant fledgeling again.

“Mother intended for you to live. If she wanted you to die, she would not have brought my siblings and I.”

“Are you all hers?” I ask, surprised.

“The Queen of the Blood Moon has lost much of her powers, but her children are many and strong,” Sinead remarks.

“Yes. We share roots with many courts. On a related note, please note that mother is not with child at the moment, Prince of Summer. Should you wish to… leave a mark,” he mocks.

Sinead does not look comfortable with the idea. On one hand, I do not care what this backstabbing, arrogant twit does with his nethers. On the other hand… I do.

A cold and calculating part of me realizes that he has betrayed me for my sake at great risk for himself. He has also had my back ever since. Another part of me realizes that I am rationalizing and accepting a terrible breach of trust, one borne from a lack of respect for my own judgment. He has been unapologetic about that breach, and has not tried to justify himself, which can only mean one thing. He expects that I will forgive him within the next couple of centuries, should I survive. It annoys me to no end that he could be right. I frown. Our eyes meet, and he does not avert his gaze.

“We are here,” Khadras announces.

The forest opens on a crater of incredible size. The dark loam disappears, fused into volcanic glass at the edge of the prodigious impact. A city stands at its center far below.

The sight fills me with a sense of melancholy.

Great roads traveled by people and caravans emerge from the surrounding forests and plains, the other side so far away that even my sight cannot catch them. They converge at the bottom of the crater, at the heart of the sacrificed court and the base of the Seekers of Lost Memories. No, their capital. It is mind-bogglingly large, so large, in fact, that I have trouble apprehending it. How can a city grow to such proportions? The immensity of the sprawling metropolis drowns me with a myriad of sights, people, and places I can see from up here. It exhibits a dazzling collection of styles and trends, with many visible spires and statues clearly looted from somewhere else. The mad labyrinth of captured architecture grows denser closer to the heart, but then, it stops abruptly. The remaining towers are clear crystal, symmetrical and perfect yet also still. Unchanging. Like a prosthesis at the end of a graceful limb. There must be millions of fae living in there, their essence truncated forever.

It takes us a good hour to reach even the outskirts of the urban landscape at a good pace. We stop by stables and are offered massive elks with muscular bodies to carry us inward. They move as swiftly as the wind across clogged streets, its inhabitants wearing cloaks and robes in earthy colors. They part before us like a sea. Khadras never slows down. Eventually, we leave the more lively districts behind and find a massive complex of blockish design, with crystal pillars supporting its massive roof. We cross its cyclopean rooms unimpeded by the halberd-wielding guards. Eventually, we reach a warehouse that could fit an entire fleet at drydock. Circular archways dot its surface, while armories and supply rooms line the sides. Khadras wordlessly guides us to one such arch as it hums, power coursing through its mineral innards.

“Could you tell us about the mission?” I finally blurt out.

I hate to break the silence to ask my questions, however the past few days have shown beyond the shadow of a doubt that I am out of my depth. I would rather ask and look stupid than act and confirm it.

“Simple enough. We will visit a prince’s court and find who among them has removed memories, and why. Once this is done, we will punish the guilty then leave. So it has been done before, and so shall it be.”

“Will we have time enough before the next trial?” I ask with some concerns.

“We will,” Sinead answers with more certainty than I deem necessary.

“You seem quite certain,” Khadras notes idly.

“I am. She would not give us a task we could not accomplish in time. Remember what she said. We get punished now, but Revas gets punished later. What would be the best lesson to one who uses the Seekers to win a game?”

To cause him to lose the game, in the end, thus proving that there are no benefits. Nevertheless, there is a chasm between plan and execution, as I have learned for too many times. It would be enough to make Revas suffer losses as a warning. It will be up to us to turn this warning for him into a warning for the world at large. Or worlds, as it were.

Khadras looks on mournfully at the gate as it finishes stabilizing. A shimmering blue surface covers the aperture.

“Ladies first,” he offers.

I grumble and walk through the thin membrane. Cold hits me abruptly, and even more abruptly because I can feel it, really, for the first time in an eternity. The chill seeps into my bones, strongly enough that it seems to freeze parts of my mind as well. The idea of warmth dulls until I can no longer even summon it. In front of me, a snow-covered plain leads to a vast frozen lake, with mountains farther in the distance. They rise under a gloomy sky, their surface cobalt and sapphire. The only warm color comes from the crimson berries adorning the nearby bushes, thick and alluring like freshly spilled blood.

The Aurora starts to shine.

By the Watcher, I know where we are.

“Welcome to Winter,” Khadras comments offhandedly.

Sinead glares around, clearly displeased. Strangely, the gold of his armor still shines in the dim light. He sighs, and a puff of foggy breath escapes his nostrils.

“Will… this be a problem?” I ask, suddenly unsure.

“If you are asking about my powers, they will not be severely hampered. Winter and summer do not oppose each other as concepts here, not like they do in your world. The winter fae are not my enemies because of their origin,” he replies.

“But because they are criminally insane,” Khadras finishes.

“And the culprit, if I may use the term, is a winter fae?”

“Most assuredly, and a powerful one too. A noble at the very least. Mastering the shadows of oblivion requires some measure of power and skill, thankfully. Come, the city is that way.”

We walk closer to the shore and I find myself uncomfortable in the Aurora as it glows, drinking in the surrounding magic. Its aura of cold increases, though my companions do not seem to mind. As we approach, I stumble to a stop.

The clear reflection of a castle extends on the limpid surface of the lake, a perfect gothic construct of spires and gargoyles. I try to discern the illusion that hides the castle, or creates it, but cannot manage. It would be too embarrassing for a dangerous lady like myself to question, point, or otherwise conduct experiments while we could be under observation, and so I will refrain. My curiosity will be soon assuaged in any case.

As we move on, I realize the reflection is growing larger. A sense of vertigo takes hold of me, and I falter on the smooth surface of the lake. A school of translucent fishes swims under my feet before darting away when a larger one catches their scent. They disappear behind a reverted guardhouse.

The castle is inversed. It digs into the lake, ice maintained through unknown means. Soon, we reach the start of a chasm. Frosted stairs descend into depths laced blue and white, doors leading to different parts of the castle. The upside down structure does not seem to bother its inhabitants.

Clad in furs and skins, humanoids with gray skin and pointy features barter and growl in the depression. They are messy, clawed, aggressive mix of lean races showing more teeth than needed. A savage crowd. As I watch, a bear-like man seizes a shorter one, punching him with hairy mitts. Scarlet blood spills on the permafrost, which drinks it greedily. One of the small creature’s siblings jumps on the man’s shoulders and bites his cheek, deep. He roars. Battle is joined.

We move on.

The deeper we go, and the cleaner the furs are. Windows of transparent ice show the watery abyss beyond and the strange fauna living there. I catch hints of silvery scales and distended maws. And half-eaten corpses quickly snapped between hooked fangs. The nobles of the court of winter have eyes like the abyss or like fire, if fire were blue and froze men to death. There is a stark beauty to them, one that makes no effort to hide the needle fangs. Those who walk those corridors have brought their nature under control, but they have certainly not forgotten it.

I feel at home already.

Soon, we arrive at the gates of what should be the tallest keep, but ends up being the deepest point, the timid sun barely reaches it anymore. Guards in armor of ice and fur open them without a word. Their blue eyes follow us like wolves follow a wounded elk. Nevertheless, we are let in without issue. Some of the guards even watch the Aurora with undisguised greed. They will get four feet of crystallized essence down the gullet before I let them even touch it.

Grumbling to myself, I almost gasp when we enter the throne room.

The ground is made entirely of glass. The bottom of the lake has risen into a mountain to meet the massive castle in the middle. Underwater, fluorescent life gives us all the illumination we need to meet the court, its nobles in rich cloaks garnered with precious gems. The hilts of blades peek out from under heavy fur like medals on an officer’s chest, all part of the dress. We progress three abreast to the throne room where, thankfully, it is not the king of winter who sits. The aura he reveals is nevertheless extremely powerful, more powerful than Sinead’s by a significant margin. If I were to face him here, I would undoubtedly lose.

My eyes lower and, once again, I fail to reconcile what I see for a short moment. A woman in a luscious dress kneels in front of him, her hands on his lap, and her head bobbing up and down over his nether. The man on the throne lounges backward on the high chair with a hand on his sword and the other grasping through the woman’s pale locks. I can guess what is happening.

UGH.

UGH.

I knew Sinead called those people degenerates, but this is a little too much! Unfortunately, no one else shares my absolute outrage and terrible discomfort before this deviance. I am compelled by the circumstances to remain mum and endure. If we were on my lands, I would kick the girl in the backside with much strength, solving both problems at once.

Unfortunately, I have enough time to inspect the man’s dark iron armor and delicate, fiendish traits while the show continues. At some point, his smile turns into a grimace of bliss. He grabs the woman’s head with both hands, shoving her forward. I wish I could drive my claws into my ears and save myself the agony of listening to those gagging sounds, but alas, it is not because they are being improper that I will lower myself to their level. I still wish I could just gut them where they are.

“Thank you, daughter. You may withdraw.”

Oh hell no.

Ew.

Honestly, I have not appreciated the unflappable stomach that comes with my nature enough. I would have retched otherwise. Ew ew ew. These incestuous inbred degenerates.

The woman turns, smiles at us, then she sashays to his side with no hint of shame, although to show it here in this den of wolves would be foolish indeed. She appears rather young compared to her father, which makes it even worse. Poor thing. I hope this was a figure of speech, and that they are not truly related, at least.

Pah, who do I hope to deceive? They share the same cruel features.

The lord of the place sighs with contentment, then grabs to the edge of his seat for an ash-colored circlet gathered around a shimmering azure gemstone, which he places upon his amused brow. He leans forward to inspect us with interest. I notice that he has made no effort to hide his flaccid manhood. Pig.

“What do the bunnies want with me?” he asks with a bored voice. “Is there a violator in my court?”

“Yes, Duke Gnash. There is.”

“Hmmm.”

The men and women around us tense. They do not move and their aura barely ripples, but I can tell the mood has shifted, somehow. The noble closest to me takes a deep breath and he starts to smell like fear. He is not the only one. It appears the Seekers do have a reputation.

“I wonder which little mouse told you, instead of bringing this to my attention. No matter. How will you seek the perpetrator?”

“Is there any strange occurrence nearby? I am concerned by mysterious events or discordant perception.”

“There is one thing…” the duke considers, tapping a finger against his chiseled jaw. “The Beast of Gildring. Some say it is a man, others that it is a feline creature as long as a war machine and quite destructive. Strangely, I am not quite sure what to make of it.”

“That sounds promising, Your Grace. Where may we track this Beast of Gildring?”

“You may try,” he says. “And if you were to succeed, do bring me the head.”

“Very well,” Khadras readily agrees.

“Sern will show you the way.”

One of the fae nobles gracefully bows. He is one that smells the most of terror here, making me wonder if the duke has some way of telling. What am I saying? He must have a way to perceive fear. This is winter, after all.

Without a word, we move back out of the throne room. The gates clang shut behind us. Many glare at us, though none bar our path. We walk out of the inverted castle immediately to my disappointment, as I would have loved to explore it a bit more. I shall have to accept that I am on a schedule. The year I have to find dragon blood feels far too short now that I caught a glimpse of the scope of what several worlds imply. Our guide walks sullenly in front of us to the edge of the forest where we appeared. It looks quite dense from here, with snow-clad forests extending far.

“So, a duke?” I ask as we walk. “Does summer have dukes as well?”

“We use different titles to reflect a different situation,” Sinead explains in a careful voice, his attention on the world around us and the hunched back of the noble facing us.

“Winter is fragmented, compared to the other courts.”

“The children of winter follow the herds and the berries. Our land is harsh,” Sern says in a raspy voice.

He still smells afraid, though he tries to put on a brave face. SCAREDY PREY. Wait, no feeding on the locals, Ariane. Diplomacy comes first. I am not even really Thirsty after that terrible indulgence over Voidmoore a week ago.

“Yes,” Sinead comments, caressing the hilt of his rapier. “Ariane dear, we will need some bloodless privacy, if you may?”

Sern squeals when my talon clamp on his neck. His face is thin, elfin, with the needle teeth of his kin. His eyes are two pits but he sees me and I see him and he is mine.

“You smell deliciously afraid, boy.”

Terror. The man is a bit of a coward. A survivor too. He tastes like a rabbit fighting an owl, only one kick away from salvation.

“You are scared, are you not? Do not worry. We are strong, and we will spare you. You get to live another day. Are you relieved, Sern?”

“Yeeessssss.”

“You are quite relieved. You live under our shadow. It is safe there. Walk by our side and relax.”

“Yes. As you say, milady.”

“Good.”

I return my attention to the prince and the seeker. Sinead nods in appreciation.

“Quite elegant for a rush job, poppet,” he starts, but then catches himself. We are no longer at the ‘poppet’ level of a relationship.

Khadras has averted his gaze, and I realize why soon. I catch a hint of pink and my hold over Sern falters. His diamond mind truly suffers no artifice, not on him and not even around him.

“So you wanted some quiet?”

“Duke Gnash is guilty,” Khadras declares without preamble. “He is the one who stole memories.”

“Wow, that was, uh, fast?” I observe.

“Mother sent us to complete a simple mission. You would be unable to help me complete a more complex one before the next trial is set to happen. I am surprised he would allow us in his court, but perhaps he expected his circlet to hide the traces of his sin. It locks his spirit and protects his mind from me. Although, he cannot influence others while he wears it. Quite the irony, for a crown.”

“And he expected it to work?” I ask.

“The exact method I use to see his violation is unknown to most, even though they try to hide the evidence. Fortunately, the research on us is sparse.”

“They do not leave survivors,” Sinead explains. “To steal a memory is a death sentence.”

“I see. Regardless, I assume knowing is one thing, and slaying him another?”

“He is a deadly warrior and, more importantly, we are on his land. His might will be multiplied here. Duke Gnash is old. His power rivals that of princes. We must exert caution.”

“He will come to kill us,” Sinead says.

Even Khadras seems surprised.

“Are you certain?”

“I have faced winter many times when I first joined the court. If they risk being overwhelmed, they will retreat in the cold reaches to avoid destruction, only to return after their foes have lost patience — or if they unwisely perished in the cold. But he needs time. He will follow us, then strike us while we are weakened — both to delay reinforcement and to make a point. He will be long gone by the time your kin comes to avenge us.”

“Sern’s reactions indicate the beast is real,” I say. “He expects us to be slain by it, perhaps?”

“It might be involved in all of this. We will see. You seem to be capable combatants. If Duke Gnash attacks, he might also be alone.”

“Will he not bring trusted retainers?” I ask, surprised.

“There is no such a thing in winter,” Khadras replies.

“Must we contend with both the duke and the beast?”

“Perhaps not. We can lay in ambush around its prowling grounds, perhaps even force a three way fight.”

“None of this matters until we learn what we are up against and where we will fight. Or does it? This place is strange to me.”

“Preparation will carry us a long way,” Khadras agrees. “But first we must learn more. There are things in the realm of winter that even a sovereign would avoid, although we have not gone too deep yet. If we are forced into a fight now, I will provide support while you two fight as you have before.”

“Understood.”

Cajoling my newest pet Sern yields little result, save for the confirmation that Duke Gnash did steal memories that relate to the beast itself.

“Yes, extremely dangerous. Terrifying, even.”

“How do you know this?”

“Hm.”

He frowns, then hisses in a strangely familiar way.

“You are right, lady. Something is amiss.”

Indeed.

“What can you tell me of the Beast of Gildring then? What can you remember?”

"Terror. Shame. Grief.”

“Grief?”

Sern nods. Charm has not completely robbed him of his survival instincts.

“You must proceed with caution, mistress. Gildring is a marshy old graveyard. The land is treacherous and filled with old, angry things. Many dangers hide in its confusing fog. Some of them ought to be dead. No one in their right mind would track a man there. It is no surprise the beast would pick it as its hiding place.”

Despite my expectations that the trip would take longer, it only takes a couple of hours for us to find Gildring. The sun is setting by now, or at least I think so since its presence is hidden behind a deep gray cover of clouds. Mortals would have struggled between the temperature and the snow, not to mention the pervading chill. By contrast, my companions move with a grace and alacrity that Masters would envy, their steps weaving between roots and ice. Sern shows that he has not survived for no reason as he guides us deeper into the land, until finally we find a marsh.

The trees split before us on a series of ponds filled with brackish water. Rotting trunks and bulrush conspire with a pervading fog to block the sight. Boulders rise from the blurry distance like idle giants. Some creatures swim in those surprisingly unfrozen waters. I watch a curious thick branch half-submerged under the dark liquid and realize it is a corroded spear. Another stone reveals its nature as a corroded piece of helmet. I wonder if the skull is still inside.

“The king defeated red-skinned invaders here, eons ago when the sphere had thawed. Some of the heat still lingers.”

“The spheres change seasons as well. Their power waxes and wanes,” Sinead whispers in English for me only.

I jump up, rising dozens of feet into the air.

Marshes as far as the eye can see. Some of the boulders look like gutted war machines. Perhaps they were.

“How do we find this beast, or traces of it?”

“It will find us,” Sern explains. “Predators hunt. It is the way.”

“So it is,” I agree.

We advance with caution now, blades drawn and in formation. Sinead and I take the lead while Sern follows, a short blade in hand. Khadras takes the rear, vigilant. We move in silence. Water burbles ominously around us. Sometimes, an unseen creature disturbs the water in the distance.

“We have been spotted,” Khadras eventually informs us.

“Where?” Sinead asks.

The Seeker does not answer. Instead, he points ahead, where a larger expanse of dry ground disappears under a thick cover of noxious smog. The form of a hairy beast emerges from it, or at least that is how it looks at first, but then it resolves itself in the shape of a man.

He wears a surprisingly pristine white shirt of modest make under a much grimier cloak of knitted furs. The cloak gives him a large profile, but in truth his chest and arms are lean and sickly, covered in starving, corded muscles. His pale skin clings to angular, delicate features over a stubborn chin. Silky black hair contrasts with keen blue eyes the color of the ocean under a storm. A small part of me insists that this trip in the land of faerie has been quite scenic when it comes to attractive lads. It drowns when the first hints of his scent reach my nose, and I focus on his essence. I gasp and come to a stop, the surprise too much to bear.

No.

It cannot be.

That…. is impossible?

And yet, Semiramis did mention it. I just could not imagine I would meet the legend in person, the man who disappeared through a unique portal centuries ago in search of a new challenge. Before he can slaughter us to the last, I take a step forward and give a polite bow.

“Buenas tardes, señor Cadiz.”

He freezes as well. The liquid pool of his eyes rise to the cloudy skies.

“Es por la tarde? Quién lo hubiera dicho.”

His gaze lands on me. A cataclysmic aura smashes into mine.

So.

POWERFUL.

No! No. I bend the knee to no one. Never again. I REFUSE.

“HSSSSS.”

“Are you real, Scion of the First? Are we both insane?” he asks with deceptive calm.

“You are not insane, Progenitor. I crossed over… it is a long tale, one we have little time for right now.”

“I feel your nature. Show me your essence, young one. Let me taste it. Unleash it. Prove this is real.”

Under his calm appearance, the essence I feel bubbles and crashes with the power of a centuries-long despair. I must help him.

“Very well. Magna Arqa.”

My sphere expands over him and roots covered in frosted thorns tear the muddy ground. They form a wall and rise to the sky around us, blotting it.

“A domain type. That means…”

The Watcher opens his eye, pupil contracting over us.

Cadiz falls to his knees and weeps.