“It was you inside that tomb, wasn’t it? I thought I had died in that crash, but now that I'm here… did you save me?” Benjamin said, moving to face the Night Beetle.

  The Night Beetle nodded her head.

  "To save your life… I brought you here to save your life. The story was for you; to arouse the mind into remembrance is not uncommon here,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “I knew our host would find it interesting and hear you out. So I did the next logical thing. I sat down and was silent.”

  Miss T. watched as Benjamin stared back at her, his face blank.

  "We are greatly honored by your story," Miss T. interjected, bowing slightly at the hips. Night Beetle also rose and bowed her head toward the man.

  “You woke me up,” she said, speaking in a low voice. “You prevented my power from being used by a madman; you sacrificed the possibility of adventure… and your very life for the greater good. My power is my own and does not belong to the likes of them. I choose to share my power with those I deem worthy.”

  "Am I dead then?" Benjamin's eyes welled up, and his voice cracked.

  "Nope! I would know," Mister D. proclaimed next to him at the bar.

  “This place helps us remember things, recognize others, and even commiserate with that which would be lost,” Night Beetle said, placing a hand on his chest. “This place was once referred to as the house of grieving. Most birthplaces produced grief, though, when dreams came out stillborn. I suppose you treated your soul well, though. New life might come to you and give birth to many more possibilities of hope.”

  His eyes began to dry.

  “Why are we really here then?” Benjamin asked, his voice uncertain, glancing around at the strange gathering.

  “Unclear,” replied the Night Beetle, her tone both patient and enigmatic, “however, it’s best to consider it a preliminary machination to a conclave. The purpose of which is uncertain, however, made manifest by our very presence and allowance of such a gathering. Despite its abject purpose remaining esoterically unintelligible.” She let her gaze drift over the others, her eyes lingering a moment longer on Miss T. before moving on.

  “Yes,” Miss T. chimed in, her voice low but resolute. “It all depends on those whose stations of power have survived. Their offices were lost in the wake of our decisions, but we all accepted that risk.” She paused, looking down, her face shadowed with a flicker of regret.

  The Night Beetle spoke again, her voice smooth, almost musical. “The state of this conversation, in the end, will reflect our direction.”

  Mister D. cleared his throat, his tone brisk. “We only need an odd vote. Let’s call it done by seven and be on our way.”

  “No.” Miss T. shook her head firmly. “We’ll wait for all who can come, for as long as we’re able.”

  Across the room, the Winter Warden’s eyes hardened. He shot Miss T. a glance, his gaze cold and cutting.

  “Yes, I know,” Miss T. muttered, the muscles in her jaw tensing. “The longer we wait, the more likely ‘they’ will find us.” A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, her expression haunted by memories of what was out there. She’d rather forget those creatures for now. Time—they needed more time.

  From across the room, the fighter pilot frowned. “But what exactly happened? And what is it you’re doing now?”

  “Building a space,” Miss T. replied, her voice a mix of hope and weariness.

  “What does that mean?” The fighter pilot squinted, unconvinced.

  She hesitated, choosing her words carefully.

  “Sometimes, in life, a place just has a name. Other times, it has a name with meaning, it’s a place with purpose. But it takes an act of will to fill a space with that purpose.” She reached her hands across the table, fingers intertwining tightly. “To build a place that’s more than its name, you must be willing to make it real—to fill it fully, so it can serve as a haven for what we are.”

  “And manage it to do what?” Benjamin pressed.

  “To hold our identities in their fullness,” she said softly, her gaze turning to the others. “Only then can we truly begin.”

  Benjamin raised an eyebrow, exasperated. “Then why wait? Why not just fill the space to the brim and be done with it?”

  Miss T. gave a thin smile. “In theory, you’re correct, but there are several problems with that approach, three in fact,” she replied. “First, this space is meant to receive offerings of truth, pieces of who we are, each shared one by one. Every voice, every story, adds a single drop to the bucket, each one equal, no voice overpowering the others. Think of it as droplets filling a delicate vessel; only in careful balance can we be certain each voice holds equal weight.”

  She paused, scanning the face of Benjamin. “This ensures we all share a vote—an equal say, without one voice drowning out the others.”

  She sighed, gathering her thoughts. “Second, what you’re suggesting isn’t impossible… but it’s risky. Each new story, each experience, is like a new flavor the space has to ‘taste.’ It won’t accept the same offering the same way twice.”

  Mister D., leaning back with a bemused smile, nodded. “Like eating steak every day. You might love steak, but after the hundredth meal, you’d rather chew leather than face another bite. And if you’re not careful, you could end up rejecting it outright.”

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  “Precisely,” agreed the Night Beetle, thoughtfully. “If we share too much of the same thing, without the right balance, the space itself may reject us. With time and care, it can be done. But…” her voice trailed off, her gaze shifting toward the ashen black door, which loomed ominously at the edge of the room.

  Miss T.’s expression grew solemn. “But time isn’t on our side. The space isn’t strong enough to shield us much longer, and the more real it becomes, the more obvious it is to others,” Miss T. nearly hissed her last word.

  “Obvious?” Benjamin asked, his voice a touch too loud in the heavy silence. “Obvious to who?”

  The Winter Warden’s icy gaze wandered toward the door, his face darkening with a scowl. A flicker of something haunted flashed across his eyes, images reflecting in his stare like visions trapped beneath ice. Miss T. noticed his tension and moved closer, reaching across the bar, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. Though her own body was visibly taut with dread, she would do her best for her champions.

  “To both our enemies and our allies,” she said, though the faintest glimmer of hope softened her voice. “For better or worse.”

  The rest of the group turned as one, their eyes locking onto the ashen black door. The air grew thick with anticipation, an unspoken sense of foreboding settling over them. Benjamin felt the weight of it pressing down, his heart pounding in his chest as the realization dawned. He raised his hand to his sidearm.

  What could make them afraid? he thought to himself.

  A chill ran through him, and he felt the blood drain from his face. His voice cracked as he dared to speak again, his mouth dry.

  “You said there were three things wrong with my statement,” he whispered. “What’s the third?”

  The Night Beetle’s gaze drifted back to him, her face a blank mask. She studied him, her eyes scanning his face with the patience of someone searching for the right answer. Then, for the first time, her expression softened, a faint glint of pity in her eyes.

  “Third,” she replied, before Miss T. could, her voice soft but unyielding. “If our enemy did come, we are not strong enough to fight back as we are now.”

  “The older of us hide behind monikers like Mister D. and Miss T. while others of us, like the Warden and myself, have given up our names to become something more, tying our hearts to the very essence of our power.” Night Beetle, the beautiful, brushed her hair behind her ears, reaching for her mug to drink more of the coffee.

  “If I'm understanding this correctly, what you're saying is, you're here to fill the space with stories so that you're able to use your real names, and in return, that will let you use all of your power?” Benjamin spoke, surmising the situation.

  “There's a bit more nuance to that, but I think the short and sweet of it is all there,” Mister D. noted.

  The radio stopped playing music. The room grew in a contemplative silence. Why does it always have to lead to silence? Miss T. thought. It seemed like every conversation was leading toward a dead end. A serious finality, a bad omen. Only something was wrong about this kind of silence; instead of the empty cold feeling she was used to, Miss T. felt the room getting warmer and warmer. Then she noticed she was sweating. Realizing what was happening, she smiled.

  The room grew as hot as an oven. Before any more words could be spoken and any more mugs could be set out, a bright light flashed across the outside windows, drawing everyone's eyes back toward the ashen black door at the front of the coffee shop. The door began brimming with power and light behind it. The space between the door and the next guest was bright. Brighter than any dawn she had seen in this new world. Another guest had arrived.

  As the door opened, the light dimmed ever so slightly, as if it were the setting of the sun.

  Walking in was a tall gentleman with short, red hair, revealing his pointy ears. His face was golden bronze. He wore ivory white armor with an orange sash around his shoulder that wrapped around his waist. The temperature in the room became warmer and neutralized the frigid cold coming off the Winter Warden. Approaching the bar, walking behind him was his saddled water buffalo. A mighty horned beast with red fur, and what most people would notice was quite a foul disposition.

  Despite that, the male elf held an uncanny resemblance to the Winter Warden. Sauntering forward, the elf gave a winning smile before bowing his head slightly.

  "I have come to honor tradition in story,” he said. “This mortal companion is Hector, and he is not my inheritor." Hector, the water buffalo, bowed deeply, showing all in the room that he had a great and refined taste. "I am the Summer Warden, and I have come to help my counterpart here deliver a story," he said, gesturing to the Winter Warden.

  Miss T. placed another glass on the table and began to make that beautiful brown liquid again for the guests. The Summer Warden in the ivory armor approached the Winter Warden in the black. A stark contrast in both outfit and disposition, the Summer Warden sat next to the Winter Warden at the bar, clasping a hand on his opposite shoulder. As Summer touched Winter, steam began to rise, and the Winter Warden turned toward him.

  "How are you, old friend?” asked the Summer Warden.

  The word "friend" hung in the air as the warm tones of those notes became frozen and still. The Summer Warden's eyes were a bright blue like a cool summer pool, mysterious and charming. The room watched as he had borne down all the levels of bright light and hope into that one look. A look that held the will of the fire in them, the will of a burning blue star.

  The Winter Warden, however, was rigid, frozen, and still. He held a quiet power—the kind of power that catches men's breath in their lungs and chokes them with it. The still resolve of an ice-covered mountain.

  After a moment of what felt like time itself freezing, the Winter Warden nodded his head at the Summer Warden, seemingly conveying more than just a friendly hello. The Summer Warden nodded back and looked over across and down the bar.

  "Right, well, I believe a story is in order. May I go, Miss T.?" he sang in a sing-song tone. His voice was smooth and pretty like liquid silver.

  She slid over his mug and bowed.

  "Right, well, hello all! I’m happy to be here, but for the sake of brevity, I'm going to go ahead and get started. Is that all right with everyone?”

  The immortals shared their affirmatives. “Seeing how what may happen is directly connected to the stories we tell, I recommend you go right on ahead since I get the feeling we don’t have much time,” Benjamin added.

  “Seems like you guys understand the situation just fine," said the Summer Warden sarcastically. When he noticed no one laughed, he coughed into his hand and began again. “Right, well, I'll go ahead and get started.”

  The Summer Warden coughed again into his hand, clearing his throat.

  “This story isn't like what is normally told. This story is full of danger and heartbreak. Daring rescues and hilarity! And full of—" his voice was cut off by a smack to the back from the Winter Warden. His chest let out a huff of disapproval.

  The Summer Warden tried to catch his breath as the wind returned to him in gradual breaths.

  He picked up again with a wheeze. "Yes.” He coughed. “Well put, friend. I'll just tell them the story.”

  “It's a story about me. A time before the world was new, and our power caused the Resurgence.” His throat flashed hints of light as he began. “It was the way things were behind the mind of softened eyes. A world of dream and thought and wild imagination. It was where felled men's minds went mad. It was where the elves danced, and Faye held court. It was where I was from. It was where I killed my enemies. It was where our story began.”