Xala had been up all night. He pilfered Colhern’s Lectern, used Colhern’s thumb to bring it back to life, and sat beside him scanning Room after Room. Xala’s entire body felt exhausted from such extensive use of his Haste-Sight Spell, which let him consume heaps of visual information in a fraction of the time it normally took. Despite his endless searches, he felt more disorganized than ever. He recognized the potential of the Lyceum as a place for learning, but Xala’s quests for knowledge often led into rabbit holes he could not escape until he realized he had opened up a Room dedicated to lewd images.

  Everything felt so new, so strange. At one point, he took the time to read hundreds of articles that were made in the last decade, and felt the swarms of information fly haphazardly around his head. When he came across two articles that were about the same event, he realized latent biases and hypocreses within either one toward whatever nonsensical political ideology they followed. Which, inevitably, led him to analyzing ideologies themselves. Apparently, a LOT had spawned since his time in the Red Empire.

  He had absorbed too much in one sitting, and needed to let the knowledge filter and spread across his brain. Akin to when he consumed someone’s soul, the information would present itself to him when necessary. Or, randomly and without warning and send him to his knees. He really did not mind, as he tucked the Lectern back into Colhern’s shirt and leaned back to stare at the ceiling.

  Well, at least he had a date for how long he was in prison.

  Four-Hundred-Twenty-Two years. The Fourth Era began with the Imperial Collapse, an event of mass death and destruction that obliterated the Red Empire and sent Okra into Parallel infestation, until it was destroyed under the weight of its own corrupted magic and the world’s natural systemic response to the Parallels’ influence. The whole continent was reduced to a wasteland of monsters and eyeless husks.

  All those people, an entire continent, died because of him.

  The ceiling suddenly seemed so interesting. It was smooth chiselwork, but far from polished. Every slight bump that offered a hint of texture, when focused on, glittered with granite crystals. Then, when his eyes unfocused from that point, it became an opaque, bland surface. Its own beauty was hidden by its rough attempt at perfection.

  Xala focused on speck after speck. In each one, he imagined the people who humiliated him in the streets. An elf-boy wrapped in rags and shackles. It was not rare for someone to grab him by the collar, some Drakul soldier who wanted to make his friends laugh, and lift him off his feet. The way Xala dangled always made them cackle like mad dogs. Anyone who saw it laughed. They viewed him as less than scum, even if he was the Emperor’s plaything. A weapon.

  When they picked him up, when they swatted his back with the back of a blade, poked him with a spear, or tossed him out of a shop, it was to protect their own sanity. He realized that within the darkness. They were afraid of him. They were afraid of the Emperor turning his weapon onto them. So, they tormented him. They did whatever they wanted in order to give them laughter before they became targets.

  Xala hated them. He hated an entire city. An entire Empire. The Entire World.

  “Morl, where are you?”

  “Who’s Morrul?” Colhern muttered in a stirred stupor.

  Xala wiped a tear away as he looked down at Colhern, smiled, and said, “An old friend.”

  Colhern groaned as he rubbed his eyes and looked up, saw Xala’s watery eyes, and sat up to lean forward and take Xala’s hand, “Are you ok? Is there anything I can do?”

  Immediately, Xala’s throat clutched. He could barely breathe as he looked away and held onto his neck. “Uh,” it was a raspy noise, void of coherence, before he inhaled through his nostrils, exhaled, attempted to speak again, and failed miserably.

  Colhern’s arms wrapped around Xala, pulled him close, and he said, “Hey, hey, it’s ok. It’s ok.” Confusion tinged his voice, wrapped itself around every word, but mixed in was something else. Compassion. “Is it because I said his name wrong?!”

  Xala immediately barked out a laugh, clenched his eyes shut, and another series of fleeing giggles escaped. “N-No,” he whispered.

  “Mmm, you sure? Because, I can take lessons to say it right!”

  Xala laughed some more, his sobs were replaced, and he became silent in Colhern’s arms. Why was this happening to him? What did he do? How could he make it last?”

  “Y’know, when I wake up beside someone, they usually don’t cry. Then again, we usually wouldn’t be clothed.”

  “HAH, I don’t want to hear that!” Xala swatted at his arm and shook his head, “What a vile thing to say!”

  “Oh, that’s vile? Really?” He pouted, “I didn’t know I was so gross! Should I leave? Do I gross you out?”

  “No!” He hooked his arms around Colhern’s waist, held him, and buried his face into Colhern’s shoulder. By then, he realized how tight his grip was. He let go and lifted his head, met Colhern’s gaze, and said, “Uh, no. No, you, you don’t gross me out. Not at all.” He brought his hands up to hide his face, “If anything I should!”

  Colhern sighed, smiled, visible through the tiny gap in Xala’s fingers, leaned back, and said, “You don’t. I would never call you gross for crying. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Xala wiped away any tears, put his hands together, and swallowed his sorrows, “Not really. But, thank you.”

  “Ok.” Colhern nodded. His gaze was soft and patient, his body relaxed, his whole essence hospitable and welcoming. Just looking at him made Xala’s heart murmur. “Today, I’m going to meet some friends. You wanna come?”

  “Oh, you must be getting serious about me. I read that Feltkanites only show their lovers to friends and family when they mean to marry them.”

  Colhern raised an eyebrow, “Lovers? Who’s moving fast now?”

  Xala’s face warmed up, “Uh, well, I,”

  “Haha, I like when you try.” He got up, helped Xala to his feet, and said, “I think you’ll like them. But, before I tell them we’re dating, will you go on a second with me?”

  His legs suddenly felt wobbly. “Of course!”

  Colhern moved to put his finger under Xala’s chin to lift his face to his.

  Morl took shape before him. Colhern’s warm touch became Morl’s cold-blooded digit, and his albino scales surrounded hateful black eyes. His snout of scars and bloody gums curled backward up to his eyes.

  Xala flinched away, let go of Colhern’s hand, and blinked away his sudden fright.

  “Oh, shit, shit, sorry,” Colhern reached out, but didn’t touch Xala again. “What did I do wrong? I’m sorry,”

  Morl vanished, “Col, uhm, it’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He turned back to him and held his hand, squeezed it, and said, “It’s me. I am,” he pursed his lips, felt the bitterness on the word’s way out, “troubled. I don’t mean to put you off in the span of a minute, but,” he shrugged, “I…”

  “It’s ok. You just tell me where it’s safe to touch you, and I will stay within the limits.”

  “You’re a very kind man. You know that, right?”

  “I know. I’m a saint.”

  “Ugh, kind and prideful!”

  “Ah-ha! I do gross you out!”

  “You!” He chased Colhern out of the pit, tossed a pillow at the back of his head, and laughed when he had to hide from the counterattack as the pillow was pelted back at him.

  Breakfast was a lovely plate of eggs and sausage, a delicacy Xala had never tried. Colhern was an exquisite chef, evident by the empty plate that followed the first bite. Xala almost demanded more until Colhern said they were going to have brunch with his friends. Of course, he had to explain the concept. Once they were done eating, they left the apartment and walked out into Fae Town’s morning streets.

  The most industrious worked at this time. All over the city, reflective mirrors captured the sunlight that came in through the skylights and redirected it all around in a dazzling light show of golden rays and lasers that led to light sprayers that illuminated entire streets. Xala gawked at the way they had creases and folds and spawned from little compartments in the sides of buildings when night passed. With daylight, the entirety of Fae Town felt less alive, but more joyous. People hustled with a different kind of pep in their step, and the merchants and shopkeepers were far more eager to get people inside.

  However, now that Colhern and him were in the main streets, hands held tight together, Xala got to experience the chaos firsthand. Grifters roamed about, magicians promised shows and tricks for change, waterdancers glided across the waterways for money, ferrymen took people to and fro with spells and animated paddles, dockworkers of all shapes hoisted or levitated merchandise onto the streets, children stole from whatever open sources they got their hands on, merchants fiercely guarded their products with whatever anti-theft charms they could afford or cast, and the people in general lived in a sort of joyous squalor that made Xala’s face twist. He watched a man steal an apple and immediately turn around to offer it to another man who seemed hungrier than him. People brushed by him and immediately excused themselves, before eyeing him up, saw he didn’t have much on him, and continued by.

  As for Colhern, people parted like a creek to a rock around him. They gawked at him, glared at the man holding his hand, and or yelled in the street to talk to him. Colhern was a local celebrity and legend. No one dared to challenge him, but they knew him enough to not crowd him. They respected him above all else. Xala caught a few envious glares, and granted each of them a nightmarish vision with a flick of his wrist. He sniggered as they fell to their knees or clawed at their eyes.

  Xala caught a preacher ontop of a pedestal whose statue was long gone. He wore long crimson red robes, a wild look in his eyes, and carried Inscriptions all over his body in the blackest ink. It almost absorbed the light as he held up his tatted hands and bellowed with a thunderous, enchanted vocal power, “Hear me, people of the Underworld! The Dark One comes! He comes to liberate you!” He was a Dawn-Kin elf with stringy pepper and salt hair and a rodent face. “The oppressors above demand your subserviance, your willingness to suffer, but the Dark One demands your rise! Rise! Rise above the muck and embrace freedom! Only then, will the Dark One arrive, and offer salvation!”

  Xala’s eyes trained on the man, his pointy ears twitched as he listened, and his mind whirred. Was it too arrogant to suggest the elf meant him? The only other dark ones would be the Moors themselves. But, if he was preaching for them he would have been killed in the street. Right?

  When Colhern and him got far enough away, and in a quieter part of the streets, Xala got close and asked, “That man, the preacher, who was he?”

  “Oh, I guess that could be weird to a newcomer. He’s a prophet.”

  “You’re taking that oddly casually.”

  “Eh, I’ve grown up with those nuts my whole life. Prophecies are about as common as bad jobs down here, so you get used to them.”

  “Well, what did he mean by Dark One? Is he talking about the Moors?”

  “Oh, fuck, no!” Colhern looked at Xala with a bit of shock, before he laughed and squeezed Xala’s hand. “No, no, that would definitely get them killed, point-blank. No, they believe in some kind of chosen one who will come from Fae Town’s shadows. Y’know, like, some dark avenger,” he held up his hand and wiggled his fingers in a creepy way. “They’ve been around for a long time.”

  “After the Imperial Collapse?”

  Colhern paused, looked at Xala, narrowed his eyes, and said, “Uhm, yeah. Again, I’m not great at history.” He scratched his head and continued onward. “I mean, my teacher, when we went over the collapse, said a lot of cults popped up afterward. Made the Mystics completely mad with how often they tore a hole between us and the Parallels. Though, most of them got purged or dissolved on their own. Their messiah, or whatever, just didn’t come.”

  Morl said that would happen. Xala knew that whatever they unleashed in Okra would have a ripple effect.

  “Anyways, here we are!” Colhern stopped outside of Rebekah’s Teahouse. It sat on a large platform that forked the cannal around it and was connected by two bridges to the streets on either side. Gigantic bonsai trees were twisted around the wooden building made with all sorts of curved and layered architecture. Air flowed through the open establishment as the dining area encircled the central bars and tea stations on every floor. Delicious foods danced around Xala’s nostrils as they got closer, each plate delivered by elevator from the basement to whatever floor needed it.

  When they walked up the stone steps, flanked by swan statues whose necks came together to form a heart-shaped arch over them, a voice shouted from the crowd of populated tables, “Col! Over here!” A blonde Oba human woman flailed her hand wildly. Bangles and bracelets jostled together around her arm, as more jewelry covered her body and clamored together. Her platinum blonde hair flowed around angular cheeks and clashed with her reddish-pink eyes. She had deep ruby-pink lips and unshadowed winged eye makeup. She wore a cream blouse, black pants, and ruby-pink heels.

  “Hey guys! Lilith,” the blonde, “Wakatya,” another Oba human woman, “Brook,” a massive Alouee Orc, “This is Xala. Please, be nice to him.”

  Wakatya gave Xala a suspicious look through her dark, almost black-brown eyes. Her hair was styled into a large aphro that seemed meticulously taken care of, held away from her face by a headscarf over her hairline, around her ears, and down to the base of her hair. She had a mixture of soft and sharp features, wore no makeup, wore scant jewelry, mixed and matched patterned linens, and some sandals. He could already imagine how comfortable she must feel with the cool breeze coming through. Black and orange inscriptions covered her body. The patterns were more geometric than particularly runic, glyphic, or scripture.

  Brook seemed slightly starstruck by Xala. His rich blue eyes looked like whirlpools in shallow salty waters. He was a robust man, as were most of his kin, but he carried a tad more fat than muscle. His tusks jutted out from his bottom lip. He had two sets of them, the larger ones on the outside with the small ones dwarfed beside. His long dark brown hair was tied into a small braided bun on the back of his head before more braids flowed down to his back. The sides were trimmed down, while his beard sat prominently on his face. He wore a strappy black tank top, a pair of blue jeans, and brown boots. He had less ink on his body than Wakatya, but the flow and fluidness of the lines and patterns easily marked him as capable of natural and druidic magic.

  “Oh, my, gosh! You are gorgeous!” Lilith got up and gave Xala a big hug, he hesitantly gave it back, and she swayed them back and forth before she pulled back and said, “No wonder Col hasn’t been answering our messages! He’s been hogging you all to himself.” She winked and pulled Xala toward his seat. When he sat down, she leaned against the table and asked, “So, have you ever been to Rebekah’s? Got a favorite tea?”

  “Uh, no, and, do they have posca?”

  “Posca?” Wakatya asked with a hint of confusion, “Isn’t that just water and wine vinegar?”

  “Yes,” Xala nodded with a slight smile. It was all he was allowed to drink besides water his whole life. “Do they not serve it?”

  “Probably not. It was only really popular in ancient Okra, and only soldiers and the lower class drank it.”

  “Katya’s an anthropologist,” Colhern sat beside Xala and offered an apologetic smile, “She’s obsessed with dead cultures and religions.”

  “I’m obsessed with history,” she gave Colhern a tired look, sipped from her cup of milk and honey green tea and said, “My ancestors have a lot to tell me, and I just listen.”

  “Oh, do you speak with your ancestors?” Xala sat up, immediately curious.

  It earned him a skeptical look, before she shifted in her seat and admitted, “Yes. I can sense them when they wish to speak to me. I open the door, and listen.”

  “Fascinating, I’ve never heard anyone describe it that way. Whenever I commune, I usually have to enter the spirit realm itself.”

  Wakatya’s interest piqued as she sat up and tilted her head, “What methods do you use?”

  “I usually just meditate into it, but I have developed a spell that lets me push my physical body into the spirit realm. I just haven’t been able to use it yet.”

  “You developed a spell? But, you’re, what, in your twenties? Surely you haven’t completed it!” Wakatya was baffled, so was everyone else at the table.

  And, just then, he realized he in fact did have four-hundred-twenty-two years on these people. They seemed around his physical age, but were children. It suddenly made him feel very old. “Uh, well, I’ve always had a mind for the calculus of magic. Arcane formulas always came naturally to me.”

  “Wow, a real genius! Where did you learn magic?” Lilith butted in.

  “I’m primarily self-taught. Trial, error, and luck. Though, I had a few mentors throughout my life.”

  Wakatya leaned forward and pressed, “That’s impressive, but where did you learn? You must have come from a very prestigious institution, or society. If you’re telling the truth, that is.”

  “Katya,” Colhern snipped at her, “He’s not lying.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I understand your skepticism.”

  “Then show us. I want to see your magical ability for myself.”

  Colhern’s jaw clenched, but Xala’s hand on his thigh eased him when he met Xala’s serene expression.

  “It’s alright. I prefer demonstration to lecturing anyways.” He looked toward the vase of flowers in the center of the table, took a deep breath and contemplated what he should do. When he came to a conclusion, he raised his hands toward the flora.

  The lavender inscriptions on his hands bloomed to life in a purple glow. Runes and glyphs lifted from his digits and wrists, floated together, conjoined, and multiplied. Hyper-complex patterns formed into existence, channeled and carefully constructed by him, meticulously managed as a secondary thought to the intent he had for the spell. His lips moved as he whispered his incantation, his eyes shimmered with light over their golden irises, and he cast his spell on the flowers.

  The water in the vase suddenly became brackish as it moved around the stems like tidals waves rippling and crashing into one another. The petals blossomed larger and more vibrantly. Roses changed shape into tulips, roses, and back into roses. The flowers grew roots and slithered into the brackish water, stabilized it, and created a bed at the bottom so they would have a harder time dying. When all was said and done, the pink roses were more colorful, lively, and vibrant than ever before.

  He demonstrated aquamancy, floramancy, transmutation, and spellweaving within one improvised spell.

  “Sorry, was that too much?”

  Speechlessness surrounded him. Most of the people in the teahouse were unaware, but Colhern’s friends all sat dumbfounded as they stared at the vase. Wakatya seemed the most shocked, as if a scaffolding of her world had just been picked apart and collapsed.

  Colhern, meanwhile, leaned over, hooked his arm around Xala’s shoulders, and pulled him close, “See?! A prodigy, and humble.”

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  Lilith made a tension-breaking squeal, reached out and touched the flowers, and giggled a little, “That was amazing! Xala, do you even have a specialty?”

  “Uh,” necromancy. Specialties were the specific fields of magic sorcerers were most well-versed in. Others called them Artforms or Archetypes. “Not really. I’ve always had a talent for any field.” In truth, death magic and the dark arts were his specialty. Elemental, natural, and other forms of magic were all peripheral to his studies. Though, he had plenty of time to theorize and deepen his understanding of all fields.

  “You’re a universalist.” Wakatya said, her tone less interrogative now. She had an air of stunned realization in her face, but a stern fury in her eyes.

  “Universalist?” Xala blinked. “Huh, well, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m not versed in all forms of magic.”

  “Likely only because you haven’t tried. If you tapped into occult and necromantic forces, you would probably wield them as well as any others.”

  “Katya! Don’t even give him the idea!” Lilith interrupted, hands splayed out. She looked to Xala, put a hand on his shoulder, and said, “I bet I don’t have to tell you why you shouldn’t even bother with that stuff.”

  Xala watched Lilith, then Wakatya, and made eye contact. In that contact, they shared a myriad of silent conversations. Had Xala already attempted to access the dark arts? Did Wakatya believe he already had? Did either of them find the dark arts all that disturbing or evil? Yes. Perhaps. Who would declare the other a heretic if they did? Would they find common ground, or violent opposition from the other if they spoke of their beliefs? Who would win in a conflict of wills?

  “Ok, guys, I know, I know, my date is very interesting, but relax!” Colhern leaned forward, injected himself between Wakatya and Xala, and smiled broadly. His eyes locked onto Wakatya, a sterness there, “Can we just enjoy brunch?”

  Her face softened, she swallowed, and nodded, “Alright. I understand. It’s just not everyday you meet a universalist. There’s probably only a hundred per generation.”

  Brook leaned across the table, knocked on the wood in front of Xala, smiled broadly, and said, “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

  “Pleasure,” he bowed his head and chuckled, “Your patience is enchanting.”

  Lilith gasped, “Oh, Brook! We’re so sorry! We didn’t even let you speak!”

  “Heh, no problem, Lil, and thanks. I know they’ve been hounding you, but is there anything you want to eat?”

  “Do they serve any meat?” His eyes lit up and he looked between Colhern and Brook.

  “You eat meat?” Brook, and the other two, stared in shock at the Dawn-Kin elf.

  “Yeah,” Colhern shoulder-bumped Xala, “You should’ve seen what he packed away yesterday! I spent all night wondering where it all went. Oh, Xala, don’t look offended, I found it extremely impressive. And, attractive.”

  “Haha, then I think we’ll get along just fine, Xala!” Brook drummed the table excitedly, “I’ll get you what I think is best, sit tight! You three having the usuals?” When they all confirmed, Brook got up, squeezed through the restaurant labyrinth and leaned over the bar to start the order.

  Lilith leaned over and held a hand to her chest, “I’m a Mechanical Engineer down here in Fae Town, one of the best of the best. I know, I know, it’s a very greasy and dirty job, but I know how to clean up! Katya over there is a researcher soon to be professor at the university, and Brook is a major greenspace keeper. Y’know those parks beneath the Dayrifts? He works for the government to keep them nice and full of life. Plus, he owns his own greenspace.”

  “Huh, so that’s what those skylights are called! Well, you all seem wildly successful.” Xala leaned into his seat and tapped his chin, “I have no idea what to do first down here. Colhern suggested I should make money off of people who wanted sex-enhancing spells and charms.”

  “Well! Those weren’t my exact words!” Colhern shifted in his seat as he felt the laser focus of the two women. He caught Xala’s mischievous look in the corner of his eye and scoffed, completely embarrassed.

  Wakatya leaned forward, “Do you have any specific skills? As a universalist, you can do pretty much anything magic related, but is there anything you have experience with?”

  Xala thought for a moment. All sorts of macabre professions came to him. He would make an exquisite mortician! He knew the ins and outs of a corpse better than most people. Was there a guild of assassins? Based on how rare Colhern looked over his shoulder, as a celebrity of sorts, it was doubtful. Hired muscle? Xala could easily intimidate and brutalize people. He could even summon the spirits of the dead to investigate crimes! But, that would probably get him killed if anyone found out how he did so.

  Though, one profession did come to mind. In the Master’s service he was an apprentice librarian. Books and scrolls were the only comfort he knew at that time. The only beauty he saw in the world. If he could merge his love of the dark arts with his love of knowledge into a career, that would be perfect.

  Alas, one problem existed.

  Why in the world, across any timeline, did Xala care about getting a career?! What use in any universe did he have for money? He could charm his way into any encounter, spawn gold from straw, and likely counterfeit anything he wanted or needed once he saw the real thing. What use did he have for anything in this modern world?

  Xala looked to Colhern, prepared to give his annoyed answer, before he realized something. The entire world had evolved without him. Earlier, he wanted to ingratiate himself into it. To fit in. That was a mortal instinct designed to keep him out of trouble. The enforcers from the surface were able to sniff him out until he escaped into Fae Town. Not a single measure he took to throw off his trail worked. As he looked at Colhern and saw the null man’s curious gaze, he realized he was too late to be free. He was too late to be unburdened by the mechanisms of culture and civilization. Morl’s dream was a failure.

  He looked back to Wakatya and smiled, “I’m exceptional when it comes to Theoretical Arcana. I can visualize a spell and recreate it, adapt it, manipulate it, or create one from scratch based on mathematical and fundamental principles. Would your university have any positions open for someone like me?” The colleges of the Red Empire allowed anyone with talent to at least discuss, learn, and, if they proved exceptionally intelligent, teach.

  “Huh. Actually, yeah. Our Master Arcanist just got fired for inappropriate student conduct, so you could apply to take his position. Except, you would require a degree in education and theoretical arcana. One of those you can spend six years training for as a student at the university, the other you would have to get from the College of Mystics.”

  Xala’s face soured. “Uh-huh. I’ve heard of them.” The College of Mystics was banned from the Empire’s magical institutions. The Empire wanted to stand on its own, and thus clashed with the Mystics for centuries over differences in magipolitical understanding. “Well, can I still apply and get an interview?”

  Colhern commented, “It won’t be like getting into the bar on the surface, Xala. You can’t charm everyone into letting you in. All the professors and faculty wear or have all kinds of protections against mind-altering magic. In fact, you’re lucky that the bouncer didn’t have anything. That stuff isn’t cheap, but it's necessary for security jobs.”

  “You charmed a bouncer to get into a bar?” Lilith beamed, “Woah, you get better by the second!”

  “Who charmed who?” Brook asked as he came back. His arms were full of plates and bowls, all easily situated on his massive limbs. He set them down one by one while Xala explained his arrival to Feltkan. He left out how he got to the docks, but started from there. And, dear Frederick. Everything else seemed safe enough to explain. Colhern also had his fair share to say and when he started Xala could not help but dig into Brook’s offered meal.

  Hordes of food lingered around the table. Leafy greens sat in front of Wakatya, a series of juices in front of Lilith, some chicken and rice for Colhern, a veggie-meat feast for Brook, and a bowl of meat soup for Xala. Samples of tea sat in the center, which Xala took generous sips and tastes from, hissed or hummed, and eventually settled on the simple black tea. The dull, pure taste compared to the cream and sugar of the others meshed better with his palette.

  Everything was delicious, and it did not take long for Xala to realize how ravenously he ate compared to the others. He sat up, gently swiped a drop of broth from his lip, licked it off his finger and asked, “What?”

  Laughter broke out and he looked around increduously, snapped his attention to Colhern, demanded explanation with eyes alone, and received, “Hehe, you’re just very funny. Though, we might have to get you a bib.” At that, even Xala had to give a rosey cheeked chortle.

  “EVIL COMES! HEAR, HEAR, YE OF LITTLE FAITH! NECROMANCED FISH IN THE SHIPYARDS! THE SINS OF THE SURFACE ARE TO BE ANSWERED! JOIN THE DARK ONE BEFORE JUDGMENT COMES!” A raving lunatic with bulging eyes and black lips screamed in the street across the bridge, in full view of Rebekah’s patrons. “DEAD UNDEAD FISH! SOMETHING RISES FROM THE DEEP, PAST THE STRONGHOLDS! IT COMES FOR US ALL!”

  Xala offered a solemn expression as the others glanced up and shrugged. Even if the others were more interested in their meals than the seemingly normalized madmen of Fae Town, Xala understood. His fish were found. He took a conservative sip of his stew as he theorized what methods the anti-mage society had to test for such trace evidence of dark arcana. Did they have gizmos and gadgets that did the work for them, or did they have professionals hidden away, sequestered into villas and places they secretly ruled from without competition? Such a conspiracy was one of the only ways Xala could imagine how his magic-using kin ended up down here.

  “Oh, shit,” Lilith muttered. Her eyes were covered in streams of pink text and she looked at the air as if she could see it in front of her. Her straw dangled in the corner of her lip as she said, “There were undead fish found off the coast. Huh, the Yutaz Shipyard. That place always had bad security, and would be the best place for an evil boogeyman to come from. But,” she rolled her eyes, “It’s probably just a bunch of runaway Scarabaea pets.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The man was suddenly beside their table. Immediately, Colhern was at his feet and in front of Xala, hands raised and ready to fight. Lilith unsheathed an arcane pistol, Wakatya had ethereal orange magic flow around her fingers, and Brook simply towered over the elder Oba human madman. He wore a long brown smock that dragged on the ground, its lowest portions covered in dirt and grime from the foot traffic of Fae Town. His bald head contrasted with his long, sleek white beard. A flimsy mustache covered his lips, seemingly difficult to grow compared to the rest. His eyes were a bright green, but his pupils were massively dilated. He addressed them all in a smooth, honeyed voice, wholly unlike the raspiness from the streets, “Believe in your idea that these things can be explained away. All things have reasons and causes, of course, I would never deny you that. But, your modern ideas are flimsy in the face of the truth.”

  Lilith’s eyes narrowed as she kept a hand on the handle of her gun and said, “You better back up. Now.”

  The man took one step back. The table behind him began to move further away to other tables. The employees were silent, but Xala could feel the charge in the air. Suppression charms. If anyone broke into a fight, he bet those would come down and knock anyone out cold.

  “Ah, you feel them, don’t you?” His eyes trained on Xala. “You can sense them all around us. Your sensitivity is a gift. One you have honed for quite some time, if it is that precise.”

  Colhern remained between them, “What do you want?”

  “Not you.” He said simply, eyes still fixed on Xala. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, traveler. I am drawn to you. How fascinating. I am Aldoron.”

  Xala looked up at the old man. His wrinkles were shallow, even though his white beard made up a percentage of his bodymass. He was an enigma. Was he ageless as well?

  “Xala Svoboda. Pleasure.” He spoke with curiosity and caution.

  “Aaaaah, Xaaaaaalaaaaaaa….” He sang slowly and with a low pitch, before he chuckled and said, “Not many names such as that, these days. Are you sure that is the name you wish to travel this world with?”

  “It is my only name.”

  “Hm. Maybe so. Maybe not. Tell me, do you believe in the Dark One?”

  “I have heard of it. Why should I believe?”

  “Hmm,” Aldoron walked around the table, careful to maintain his distance from the others, whose expressions shifted between confusion, concern, and anger. He grabbed a chair from a nearby table, saddled it across from Xala, and bore his eyes into Xala’s, “The Dark One shall rise from the shadows of the subteranne, blessed with the powers of all who gather here. He shall be exalted, transcendent, and utterly without mercy. The world above, the world of nulls, will quake at his arrival. Some say he is here. Some say he never will be. What would it take to make you believe?”

  “Have you ever conversed with Parallels, Aldoron?”

  His eyes twinkled with delight, “Ooo, yes, I have.”

  “How recently?”

  “Not too un-recently.”

  “I believe that if there is an entity known as ‘the Dark One’, they would know, wouldn’t they? Or, do they keep tight lips when you call?”

  “Ah, you jest with me. Wise or unwise? Guess.”

  “Wise.”

  “Why?”

  “You enjoy critique, no? You are dressed humbly, and walk with conviction. You seem to have no fear, and thus, you are absolute in your ideas. Now, you ache for someone to challenge you and liberate you from your own mental shackles, grown and nurtured through endless contemplation and condemnation of all contrary evidence.”

  Aldoron was silent for a moment. Colhern placed a hand on Xala’s shoulder and looked down at him with a mixture of amusement and utter bewilderment. He glanced back to the others, who had a range of similar feelings, and reassured them with a smirk.

  “You are half-right. I do seek challenge, but my convictions were forged in fire, not solitude. Beneath this city, there are catacombs the likes of which would have made the Moors shudder. Endless tunnels of dead species and extinction-level events. Our earliest ancestors are found there, and more are added every day. We sit upon a necropolis. Only from those shadows can someone of purity rise. Those who go in never come back the same. I wish to find someone who can traverse the darkness and return unscathed. I want to find someone who is incorruptable. When I die, and no such Dark One has risen, I will be sufficiently challenged, and defeated.”

  “Pfft, those catacombs aren’t that deep or that mystical. We used to go down there all the time, and only found bones and unhoused people,” Wakatya crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, eyes burrowing into both Aldoron’s and Xala’s heads.

  “Does every room have a door?” Aldoron asked simply. “If not, then there may be no conventional ways into the depths. Ey, ma’am?” His eyes never left Xala’s. Xala never broke eye contact. “Hm, I sense kinship in you, elf. Your eyes are gilded. The gold hides pain. Doesn’t it?”

  Xala paused for a split second, before he inhaled and said, “Life is painful. What is the difference between pure gold, fool’s gold, and a gilded piece of coal? To the fool, all of them are of equal value. To the smith, only two will feed his forge and then his family. To the merchant, only one is useful. To the swindler, all are a prize. To the intellectual, all are mechanisms on which society can be pulled like levers.”

  Aldoron’s eyes widened and his eyes drifted for the first time. He was suspended in thought, a hand raised to his mouth to stroke his beard with gnarled nails. His knuckles were like knots in tree limbs, his hands sinewy and veined. His lips shuffled beneath his whiskers, his eyes closed, and looked at Xala when they reopened. “Listarius. I remember her writings. You are trained in the antique?”

  “Sufficiently.”

  “And yet, so young. Why?”

  “Why so young, or why so well-versed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was bored. Eventually, children stop playing with books and start opening them.”

  “Hm. You have been worked like a dog your whole life. There is no time for books with such a life.”

  Xala’s lips drew thin as he contemplated how Aldoron knew. What could have possibly led him to that?

  “Details, Xala. Details. Smoothed flesh cannot hide the truth beneath. No matter how much it shimmers. Not to those with eyes who see. Now, before, I preached the Dark One to you. Do you believe?”

  “So far, I have heard only vague preachings. What are the specifics of this prophecy?”

  “Ah, yes, there you go. Specifics. Details. It has been retold and misinterpreted and retold and misinterpreted more times than you can fathom. However, the central points have always remained. He will be shaped unlike any who live among us, a complete stranger to all he encounters. He shall rise from the darkness during a time of crisis for those of arcane gifts. He will rise after the death of the greatest Empire of the East. His power will demand the bending of a million knees, and his creed shall be liberation. War whispers in the midst of his coming, and the marshes of Illamoor will fall silent upon his arrival. The gods will refuse to sing for his coming, for he challenges their risen star. Paradise and the Abyss will shudder at his coronation.”

  Xala sat in thought. To the Parallels, he was Dajilominim, Dark One. If he had not been imprisoned, he would have arrived at Feltkan, or somewhere else on Trymora’s western coastline, before the anti-mage sentiments took deep enough root for where mages stood now. He believed in liberation and the dismantling of authority, but why would he bend a million knees for that? Some of it made more sense than others. Thus, he answered.

  “What happens when one of the criteria does not happen?”

  “Then he is not the Dark One. Another will have to come.”

  “Hm. What do you want him to do for you? This prophecy is older than the Imperial Collapse, I imagine. Is liberation truly all he means to bring?”

  “In every sense of the word. Some believe he will liberate us from our mortal coils, and let us ascend to the stars if we serve him well enough. Others believe he will dismantle the gods themselves and cast them away so that no god-made abominations or saviors can come to corrupt us and our world. Our world, after him, would be completely ours. Not just as mages, but as living, thinking beings within it. As for what I want, I want him to help me see my children again.”

  Xala tilted his head, expression somber, and asked, “What hides them from you?”

  “I know not. Neither spirit singer nor gravecaller can find them. I keep them with me,” he moved his beard to show three small, mummified, severed fingers dangling from twine around his neck. “Each time they look, they find nothing. When they declare they have found something, I know they lie. I know.”

  Disgusted reactions surrounded Xala, but he remained calm. He had seen far worse than mummified children’s fingers. He was solemn and serious as he studied them, reached out his hand, and offered, “May I look?”

  He could feel Wakatya behind him. There was a genuine curiosity in her agitated glare.

  Aldoron paused, contemplated, and nodded as he scooted closer and let Xala touch the fingers. Xala took them into his palm, closed his fist around all three, shut his eyes, and took a slow, deep breath. His inscriptions blossomed to life, runes shimmered to life above them, and a spell was cast.

  Everyone in the teahouse was made to see something that was not there. Aldoron saw the truth, though. He permitted the man that much. To the people in the teahouse, their perceptions were warped to show Xala’s hands channel ethereal bluish-pink strands of energy from above and below. Arcana swirled around him, his head, and his fingers as he attempted to perform a most rudimentary seance.

  But, for Aldoron, he showed the truth. Vile black-green magic slurred out from his inscriptions and lobbed itself into the air. Globs of it slammed together, stretched apart, squelched and sizzled, and formulated rapidly rotating rings of glyphic design. Runes took shape from tar, green arcana hurled and vomited itself into rings of light. The floating sigils spun and orbited Xala, until they came forward between an astonished, awestruck Aldoron and him, congealed into a mass fractal prism of rapidly, wildly shifting shapes and systems, before the darkness swirled into Xala’s hands and temporarily revealed the hidden, pitch-black tattoos that covered his hands down to his forearms.

  Aldoron saw the blackened hands, and his eyes widened. He muttered to himself, “No one can handle that much ink…”

  Yet, Xala did, all without revealing his grey flesh. His black ink emitted a green hue that slithered forward to his fingertips, condensed, and interacted with the mummified fingers.

  Xala opened his eyes and saw three small bodies. They were all laid flat and half-submerged in an endless black lake. Above, an inversion of blue clouds and white skies drifted on by without a sun. The bodies were mummified head to toe, a finger missing from each.

  When he looked down at himself, he was in his Moor form.

  Xala knew this plane. He stood in the Negative. A Parallel that existed between most others. It was typically the place Planeswalkers traveled through to slip into other planes of existence, but few people ever actually stopped in the Negative. It was the same thing as opening a door, stepping inside the threshold, and then stepping into the door itself.

  “Dajilominim, why are you here?” Xala turned around to see one of the guardians of the Negative. It was a mass of ribbons wrapped around a vaguely humanoid body. Each ribbon flowed far off into the distance to a point of unknown origin. Black eyes peeked out from around carefully placed linens. Burlaps, silks, satins, and other fabrics all warped and clung to its shape.

  “I was looking for them.” Xala gestured to the children. “Just looking. Their father wanted to know where they were, so I used a spell to find out. Am I intruding?”

  “You never intrude, Dajilominim. You are always welcome here. It is unlike you to assist someone in this way.”

  “He intrigued me. The father is a troubled man, but an interesting one. He speaks of catacombs beneath the Trymoran city of Feltkan. I am curious to see if he would become my guide into such a place.”

  “I see. Tread carefully in such a place, Dajilominim. I know what you speak. You should have no issue with the energies there, but forsaken haunt that place. It has served as a dumping ground for many Summoners of the past.”

  “Thank you for the information. What can I offer in return?”

  “Always polite, dear Dajilominim. Your payment is not required. However, Morl has racked up a debt. Where is he?”

  “I cannot find him. I,” Xala frowned. He raised a hand to his neck, where fang marks and claw scratches still lingered. “I am unsure if I want to, anymore.”

  “Flesh is but a bridge toward something better, Dajilominim. All pain suffered by flesh can be remedied by the removal of it.”

  “I know, Wise Wisjek. I have theorized how to remove it, but I do not yet have the means.” Xala smiled slightly as he looked at his hands. His black claws clicked together as he looked at the hands where once callouses, cuts, and bruises were commonplace, hidden only slightly by his inscriptions. “Have you ever been touched by a gentle hand, Wise Wisjek?”

  “No, Dajilominim. That is something I have never experienced. Nor would I want to.”

  Xala blinked as he flexed his hand and said to himself, “I think I want to.”

  “Blessed be you, then, child. Blessed be you.”

  “Thank you.” Xala closed his eyes and slipped out of the door and back into reality.

  Back in his elven flesh, he opened his eyes and looked up at Aldoron. He had been gone for only a few seconds. His face told Aldoron that he found them. The old man sat on the edge of his seat as Xala said, “Find the space in-between. Where the positive loses its luster, beyond the neutral.”

  Aldoron gasped, leaned back, brought a hand to his mouth, and simply stared in shock. His throat clicked with a loud swallow, his eyes watered, and he rose from his chair. He put his hands to his sides, balled his fists, and released them with a shuddering sigh. “That is enough for me. Thank you, Xala. Perhaps the gold in your eyes is pure.”

  Xala smiled. “That would be nice.”

  “Yes. Goodbye, traveler.”

  “They are waiting in a peaceful sleep. Find them soon.” Aldoron nodded in response, turned, and shuffled his way out of the teahouse and back into the streets.

  Xala sat in silence for a moment, twisted back around in his seat, and took a massive spoonful of stew into his mouth. Heat be damned, he needed to eat after the energy he just used up. His whole body felt numb and shaky as he slurped down the hot broth and went back in for another bite.

  Wakatya sat across from him, jaw clenched, and simply stared. In that look, which he only glanced at, he saw whirlpools of contemplative conspiracy. Beneath her ironclad gaze was a draconian set of principles that demanded answers, but to questions that could not include her companions. She knew. She knew exactly what Xala had pointed Aldoron to.

  Colhern almost clapped a hand on Xala’s shoulder, chose to grab the back of the chair instead, smirked toward his friends, and said, “Whatever just happened, get my man some cake!” He pointed to the employees, who seemed relieved by the fact a fight didn’t break out. They rushed about, while Colhern got low and blew Xala a kiss, “I found that oddly attractive.”

  “Mmf,” he swallowed, hissed at the burn, and whispered hoarsely, “Cold water,” he grabbed the jug of it and poured it haphazardly into a cup and slammed it into his mouth. Colhern laughed while Brook and Lilith sat in continuous shock, until they looked at each other and started their own baffled fit. Wakatya remained still and stiff as she ate and kept her eye on Xala.