The University's grand hall was a vast gulf of stone arches and flickering torchlight, a place usually devoted to measured discourse and erudite scholarship. But this day, tension pulsed through its corridors. Students, assistants, and professors alike filled the aisles, clustering in hushed groups or perching anxiously on the edges of their benches.

  I stood behind a broad marble column, close enough to sense the electric undercurrent in the air. Halvdan hovered at my side, tapping a trembling finger against a bound ledger. “Otto,” he said in a near-whisper, “whatever becomes of this assembly, it will define our entire pursuit of knowledge. The Blemmye’s words…” He trailed off. “If they hear him, maybe we can prepare.”

  Still, his eyes looked restless, darting from face to face. It was as though he yearned to say more but struggled to find the words.

  I touched his shoulder gently. “Halvdan, speak plainly. You would not tremble so if you had no dire tidings.”

  He exhaled in a rush, as though loosening a secret. “I spoke to him—John, the Blemmye—Otto. At his awakening. I was there the very moment he found his voice.” Halvdan paused, glancing at the ledger in his hands. “He said...the pattern repeats. These storms, these ‘breaches’—they have come before in older ages, but the signs are accelerating.”

  “I saw this ‘breach’ myself,” I murmured.

  The words left me quieter than intended, but they hung heavy. I could still feel it—the darkness, palpable and endless. The pain of splinters tearing into my neck and face, sharp wood and stone sent flying by an unseen pressure. And beneath it all, that low, churning resonance.

  The song of the void.

  “Then you must agree John’s insight could have pertinence. Who else could shed light on this?” Halvdan pressed. There was a sharpened hope in his tone, as if my memories might vindicate his dread.

  “Of course I agree,” I said, slower now. “I trust your judgement.”

  But even as I spoke, a thought crawled in behind my teeth—bitter, absurd, and chilling. I shivered.

  “No summons to Ahlia?”

  Halvdan scoffed, violently enough that I turned, half-convinced he’d taken ill.

  “Ahlia? She went straight back to her tomb. Scared a dozen scribes witless, bled out over half a season’s worth of field research before vanishing again.”

  He shook his head, the movement weary and final.

  “Ahlia will not concern herself with worldly debate. No saint will. Most are too broken to even comprehend speech.”

  “And what did you learn from John, Halvdan?” I pressed, lowering my voice so nearby scholars could not overhear. “We cannot rely on half-truths now. If there is more, I must know it.”

  He opened the ledger to a page teeming with cramped notes and sketches. “The charters were just embers, Otto. The first hint of trouble, maybe a year back. But now the fire is spreading. Strange reports from the frontier, irregular weather, entire shipping routes gone silent.”

  He looked at me, "And Lethal Aberrations, of course."

  My stomach lurched. “I have only heard fragments—rumors, scattered talk. This is more than I realized.”

  Halvdan nodded vigorously. “I’ve accumulated, shall we say, a necessary sum of—votes, if you will. Support from key faculty and lesser masters. It should guarantee you are heard without interruption, at least at first. Let their confidence fortify your voice in the debate.”

  “Votes,” I echoed softly, allowing a grim smile. “You conspired to ensure I speak with the authority of a majority.”

  “We do what we must,” Halvdan answered, shaking his head. “Especially now. You are the only one who can persuade them to take the Blemmyes warning seriously. If we are to prepare, it must start here.”I squeezed his arm in gratitude. My mind reeled with the possibilities—disaster or deliverance, depending on the outcome of this assembly. “Then let us hope the Council heeds reason. Ready?”

  Halvdan took a final, quivering breath. “Ready.”

  I glanced up at the tiers of elevated seating that enclosed the main floor of the hall. The Grand Council—those merchants, barons, and dignitaries who oversaw not only the city but also the funding of this entire academic institution—had arranged themselves on one side, faces cool, impassive, each posture measured in its scrutiny. On the opposite side, flanked by a guard or two in shining half-plate, the Supreme Commander of Gustavland’s armies observed us in composed silence, thick arms folded across his chest. His presence alone conveyed that these proceedings were no mere philosophical dalliance.

  A herald’s voice boomed suddenly, cutting through the low thrum of conversation: “All rise for the Grand Council and the Supreme Commander!”

  Movement rippled through the crowd as scholars snapped to a form of attention, heads inclining. Our highest academic leaders, robed in layered silks and embroidered stoles, exchanged uneasy glances, but no one spoke. Only once the Council members had taken their places did the assembly settle. Torches flickered, casting wavering shadows across ancient stone columns.

  Then the door at the far end of the hall opened with a slow groan, letting in a gust of cooler air. A wiry attendant stepped forward, grasping a large bronze bell. Its sharp clang cut through the lingering murmurs, arresting every mind in the chamber.

  “Traditions must be held!” the attendant intoned, raising his voice to reach the far corners of the hall. “Hear all! Hear all! The Master of Debate calls us to order!”

  At once, a tall figure in a dark blue robe took position upon a small dais. His features were etched with rigorous academic discipline, and for a fleeting moment, even he looked unsettled by what he was about to say. “We gather for the Grand Debate,” he announced, voice steady but edged with tension. “Calling the floor: John the Blemmye, everyman and laborer at the University of Hasholm.” The Master of Debate paused, his eyes flicking back at the figure who now stepped from the threshold. There was a veil of uncertainty across his face—a glimpse of lost composure—before he recomposed himself. “John is prepared to defend his stance of a changing order. Troubles born, witness in his mind, shared by saintly sentiment, and the burned remains of our hall of study. He shall have the word uninterrupted, before discord commences!”

  A hush settled with unnerving speed. Scholars who moments earlier had been whispering frantically grew silent. I felt Halvdan stiffen beside me; across the chamber, the Council members leaned forward in tense anticipation.

  John the Blemmye, once considered little more than a ward to be pitied, advanced with measured grace. Here was a being whose existence had long been deemed simple, mindless. Yet now he bore himself with a startling dignity. His eyes—set in that strange, chest-bound face—glided over the crowd as though searching for old friends among them. In his posture, I sensed a blend of gratitude and urgent resolve, as if he approached the very people who had sustained him, fed him, given him purpose. And now he would implore them to face a truth they scarcely dared name.

  He paused, letting the silence expand, and then spoke in a voice that resonated with a depth far beyond what any of us could have expected—like the masters of old. It was a display of oratory that made me wonder: My God, John, where do you find these words? How far into the core of your being did you reach to unearth them?

  “My friends,” he began, gently, “you are indeed my friends. Many of you have seen me pass these halls. You offered me three meals a day, gave me shelter, gave me purpose. And for that, my kin and I remain grateful. Through the veil of my former silence, I watched you all—and it warmed me to know we shared this haven of thought. But now,”

  he spread his large hands, voice quivering with earnestness,

  “that veil has lifted. The safety we believed in no longer stands. The West is closed; the order shifts. My kin feel it in our bones, as I suspect some of you do too. Our path has been made clear. We are not alone in this dread, nor in this unexpected purpose.”

  He paused again, letting his words settle into the collective hush. Even the Master of Debate, who was meant to moderate, stood transfixed, perhaps pondering the gravity of John’s claims. Beneath the tall arches and the watchful eyes of the Council, John’s message seemed to vibrate in the torchlit air. It was the voice of someone both grateful and afflicted by a cosmic burden. And in that moment, no one questioned his right to speak—least of all me.

  When he again spoke, his voice carried in the hush with a resonance no one could ignore. “My friends—some among you have known me as a curiosity, as the silent other in your midst. But I stand here now not as an oddity, but as one awakened to a reality that threatens all of us.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  His words dropped into silence, and I heard the faintest shuffle of parchment as Master Freling frowned, adjusting his ornate cane in the front row. “Awakened?” Freling echoed, arching a brow. “You speak of illusions, or half-fabricated nightmares, John? Do not mistake ephemeral visions for knowledge.”

  Professor Elsbeth, a stern figure renowned for her relentless advocacy of empirical inquiry, rose gracefully from her bench. “Freling, the Blemmye’s very articulation is proof enough that something changed. He was not always so…eloquent.” She turned to John. “Tell us then: how do you know reality is tearing?”

  Master Botanist Truls rose with such fervour that most of his prepared statements slipped loose and fell in a torrent to the debate floor.

  “Elsbeth, Freling—has the unraveling of our sacred hall already left your minds?” His voice cracked with fury. “We know John. He pulled weeds. He tended oxen! He did not speak. He did not reason. And now he speaks as one of the ancients? He awakens just as our sanctuary crumbles. Is this not plain enough for your vaunted minds?”

  His outburst echoed across the chamber, scattering whispers like startled birds.

  “Have we also lost all knowledge of the anomalous nature of this land?” retorted Freling, rising with theatrical disdain. “Forces beyond our control are normal—some would say part of nature itself. Were not the harbors of Hasholm struck by scalding hail just sixteen years ago? We endured then, and we will be struck again. This does not guarantee correlation!”

  He jabbed the floor with his cane for emphasis, his voice ringing with the righteousness of long tenure. “Disaster alone is not revelation. Do not dress coincidence in prophecy.”

  Murmurs rippled through the rows—some in agreement, some in unease.

  “I only know the storm has awakened,” John interjected. Voice subdued yet resonant. The Hall hushed, he had earned their attention already. “That sense…that pulse. The dreams. The wide unblinking eyes of my kin who stare at horizons where no man sails.”

  "The horizon, you say?" Elsbeth pressed, pushing aside the speculative chatter. "We have conflicting accounts from the western harbors. Some say the waters churn dangerously, that storms gather more frequently. Others claim trade continues smoothly—save for the usual hazards."

  John hesitated, his chest-face pained. "I do not claim knowledge of your ships or their logs. My people seldom took to the seas. Yet we feel in our dreams that the boundaries are shifting, that unnatural tides surge beyond our comprehension.”

  Someone scoffed, and a mathematician named Kalf spat, “Dreams again. Are we to shape our city’s defenses around the nightmares of a Blemmye?”

  Suddenly, Halvdan’s voice rang out—loud, unwavering, proud—from behind me.

  “A call of the High Investigators, Chief Astronomers, and High Theologists to be heard!”

  His cry cut through the mounting debate like a herald’s trumpet. Eyes turned. Heads lifted. For all his gloom and grumbling, Halvdan had secured a bounty of backers. He might be sullen, but he could wriggle many a man to his cause when conviction seized him.

  The Master of Debate raised one hand, palm outward, commanding silence without needing to shout. He studied Halvdan closely, the weight of formal protocol hanging in the pause that followed.

  “What voice speaks for you?” he asked at last, tone clipped, ceremonial.

  “Otto Vernhaugen of the High Investigators.”

  No need to wait. I advanced to the centre, boots clicking softly against the cold stone floor. All at once the chamber’s vastness seemed to narrow, the weight of a hundred learned eyes closing in on me like shutters. I carried with me the scent of ink and candle smoke and the unripe fruit we called evidence—still firm, still bitter, but all we had.

  I wished Halvdan had spoken for himself. I was never good at this. But here I stood.

  “Masters and learned men, Honoured Council and dignitaries,” I began, voice steady in its first breath. “I speak now at the cusp of something new.”

  I drew breath again, feeling heat behind my ears. “I follow the preachings of a living miracle. Our very own John.”

  I gestured toward him, a broad sweep of the hand—an attempt at oratory dramatics. I doubted it landed. One or two heads turned, but most remained frozen in their scrutiny.

  Still, the words had been loosed.

  “I am no prophet,” I continued, “no saint, nor seer. I am a witness. To a change not confined to dreams or metaphors, but to splintered stone and sundered air. And I fear we are already too late to dismiss what has awakened among us.”

  “At our office,” I said, steadying my breath, “we closely uphold the veins of this land. Our agents and field researchers scour the provinces for signs of collapse—routes no longer traversable, smells that kill, sounds that blind. We bind every natural unraveling with ink.”

  I paused, the words heavier now than I’d expected. A dull ache formed behind my temples.

  “I curse myself for not heeding the signs sooner,” I admitted. “For not raising the alarm before the ground beneath us began to slip.”

  I looked out across the chamber—at men and women who had charted the stars, mapped the storms, dissected the laws of cause and consequence.

  “Our work has grown disheartening. Charters are voided every week. More and more people vanish. More die. And the signs—of Devilry, of Anomaly, of things not bound to our understanding—they no longer come in whispers. They arrive with increasing virility. They stake their claim.”

  The hall remained quiet, but I could feel the ripples forming. Eyes hardening. Quills freezing mid-note. No one could call this theatre anymore.

  I raised my voice, just slightly.

  “This is no fever dream. It is a pattern. And it accelerates.”

  “Accelerates? What proof do you have?” Elsbeth’s voice cut across the chamber like a scalpel, precise and cold. She eyed me as one might assess an unfamiliar blade—testing my sharpness, my balance, wondering if I would hold or shatter.

  I straightened. “The reports grow denser. Charters now lapse within days. Roads vanish beneath mud and fog. Routes once safe twist overnight. And the sightings—”

  I paused to cough, dry and abrupt. The air in the hall felt thick.

  “—village rumours multiply. Old paths abandoned. Beasts changed. Lights seen where none should burn.”

  “Villagers?” Freling sneered, leaning forward like a carrion bird scenting carcass. “You come here, before Council and Command, to recite the tales of hags and crones?”

  His contempt rippled across the benches.

  “They are part of the pattern!” I snapped. “They live at the edges. They see before we do.”

  I stepped forward, voice raised—not in volume alone, but in heat.

  “I trust some crones more than some of our most esteemed books. Ink fades. Eyes do not. They have watched the tree line for sixty years. And now those trees whisper back.”

  "Esteemed Council and Learned, John has awakened! Our sanctuary, ravaged! Our very people, stranded and corrupted by unwholesome powers!"

  "I implore that we take heed of what lays plainly in front of us!"

  The hall stilled again—unwilling to accept, yet unable to dismiss.

  Eventually, the High Rector rose from his gilded seat at the front dais. He was a tall figure swathed in layered robes of dark green embroidered with the University’s insignia. His presence commanded immediate respect, and the roiling arguments settled into uneasy quiet.

  “Knowledge cannot thrive in the choke of ignorance,” the High Rector said, his deep voice echoing. “We are a gathering of rational minds, yes, but we have always demanded exploration of that which defies easy explanation. To shut our ears is to condemn ourselves to the very darkness we claim to dispel.” He paused, turning a measured gaze toward John. “Blemmye, your transformation is part of this evidence. We cannot dismiss it. We will not. Yet your warnings must be tested.”

  John inclined his torso—a gesture I knew to be a sign of respect among his kin—yet said nothing more. The High Rector shifted his attention to me. “Otto, you have long served as one of our most reliable investigators and a voice of reason. Are you prepared to do what the University was founded to do—pursue the truth, however perilous or unwelcome?”

  I bowed my head. “I am, my lord.”

  His gaze flickered to the Grand Council. Their expressions remained guarded, but a slight nod from one imposing merchant signaled acquiescence. I saw the Supreme Commander’s jaw tighten—perhaps stifling some private concern. Then the High Rector spoke:

  “Then it is decided. You, Otto, will lead a specialized group eastward—a Charter Wing dedicated to inquiry. Seek out the anomalies, gather information, confirm or refute these dire warnings with empirical study. Should the threat prove real, we must prepare our city accordingly. If it proves illusory, then we shall have peace of mind that reason has triumphed over fear.”

  A ripple of reactions went through the scholars. Some sighed in relief, others grumbled about the cost or the risk, but there was no further challenge. Knowledge, tempered by prudence, had won the argument—for now.

  I looked across the hall to John. His posture had relaxed slightly, as though a burden lifted, but his eyes still carried that haunted look, as if what he sensed far exceeded the relief of this momentary academic victory.

  Amid the exodus of robed figures and the hush that followed the Rector’s decree, I approached John. Halvdan trailed behind me. “Your words,” I said quietly, “they have spurred an entire institution to move.”

  "Your words raised some eyebrows as well Otto." Halvdan whispered. I could feel the grin.

  "Thank you master Otto. My words could have drowned, had you not given them buyancy." The learned, graceful cadence John had revealed was still a wonder to behold.

  He inhaled then as though troubled. “If our words help the city see, it is good. But the storm only grows, Otto. I wish I could say more. Yet I know little beyond the darkness of our dreams. Even that weighs heavily.”

  I rested a hand on the wide stone balustrade, glancing up to the silent figures of the Grand Council. “We have a mandate. We will search out the truth, wherever it leads.”

  John nodded, his chest-bound face solemn. “And I will pray your reason proves enough. The rifts in reality do not bow to reason easily.”merchant

  Thus the session ended, and the grand hall emptied of its anxious voices. The Council withdrew, as did the Supreme Commander, and I felt a flutter of uncertainty in my stomach. This was no mere scholarly venture. We were stepping onto a road that might lead us to revelations—harsh, terrifying revelations—that none of us could fully anticipate. But even in my growing unease, I also felt a faint resolve. We would not cower. We would watch, inquire, and uncover what truly lay beyond the world’s fracturing horizon.