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Fantasy Anthroterra

Reader mode

The wolves snarled, their bodies low and bristling. Mordecai’s grip tightened on his staff, eyes flicking around the jagged stone cage. He didn’t panic. But he moved—slow, calculated—tracking every crevice, every bloom of lotus wrapped around the walls.

His head jerked back toward Ephraim.

His mouth opened—to speak, to ask—but it closed again. Breath caught. Jaw clenched.

The ground beneath him trembled.

And then it rose.

From the floor of the cage, light and memory took shape. A towering figure emerged—wildebeest-shaped, but not alive. Not fully. Formed from spectral luminance and fragments of hardened magic, it carried itself with the weight of command. A guard, reborn. 1747971565415.png

Its battle axe shimmered in its grasp—ornate, ceremonial, brutal. Swirling across its robes, near the heart, the shape of a lotus glowed softly—half emblem, half curse. A mark of order. A house once obeyed.

The wolves snarled louder, tails lifted, bodies in tight formation. Cer in the middle, jaws already split in a bared, skeletal snarl. Ber flanked left. Rus locked center, every inch of him bristling.

The Wildebeest’s mouth never moved.

But its eyes flared.

And the voice came, but Mordecai heard it too.

"The lotus has bloomed. The veil has lifted.
This cage is not punishment. It is memory made stone.
He stands in the place you once judged from above.
You walk free, but not clean.
The path does not forget who gave the orders.

Speak, Lady Huhanna.
Let the record return.
Let the weight be measured, not by silence—
but by what you choose to carry.
Each question opens. Each answer binds."

The spectral warrior moved.

It raised the battle axe slowly, deliberately—then slammed the butt of it into the ground. A pulse ran through the stone like a bell tolling beneath the earth.

A ceremony had begun.

Mordecai didn’t move, but his shoulders braced.

"Ephraim..."

His voice barely reached across the cage. Low. Raspy.

He didn’t call out in accusation.

But the wolves stood ready.

The Wildebeest’s eyes flared again.

And the first question rose with them.
Question:

"One poster. One bounty. A grey-furred goat in his seventies, known only then as ‘Dr. Willowmire.’ Charges: multiple counts of murder, high-tier illicit alchemy, operating an unlicensed medical practice, targeted assaults on council enforcement, incitement of rebellion, confirmed ties to organized slum-based criminal networks, suspected involvement in the disappearance and dismemberment of bodies found in local waterways, and possession and deployment of high-grade poisons across multiple incidents. Deemed an extreme threat to city stability. Reward: double grain ration or full council debt forgiveness. Who authorized it?"

A. “I didn’t know who he was. It was standard procedure.”

B. “The council feared him, and I let that fear shape my judgment.”

C. “He was dangerous. I believed justice demanded it.”

D. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
 
Ephraim froze.

Not visibly—but inside, everything clenched. Her breath hitched so shallow in her chest it barely counted. The name—Lady Huhanna—rang through her like a cracked bell. Too familiar. Too sharp. It wasn’t just the title. It was the timing. The way it echoed when she was alone, standing outside the bars, and Mordecai—Mordecai—was the one inside them.

She hadn’t meant for this. Not for him to be caged. Not for the ground to remember something she’d tried so hard to bury it never had a shape to begin with.

Her hooves shifted—one scraping back half a step, a reflex she hated. Her hand twitched toward her coat, like she could reach into the fabric for a better version of herself. One that could explain. One that hadn’t just stood there.

She didn’t meet Mordecai’s eyes right away. Couldn’t. The wolves’ snarls were a wall between them now. A sound of protection—but also judgment.

She opened her mouth—

Nothing came out.

Of course it was happening like this. Of course it bloomed lotus.

She gritted her teeth.

Her voice, when it came, was tight around the edges. Controlled—but only barely.

“This isn’t—” Her eyes flicked to the Wildebeest. Then to Mordecai. “I didn’t ask for this.”

It sounded too defensive. She hated how it sounded.

Her pulse was in her throat now, pounding loud enough to blur the edges of her vision. Not from the island. From him. From what he might be thinking. What he might remember.

She stepped forward a half-inch.

Ephraim stood very still.

The spectral warrior’s voice echoed through her bones, and the weight of its presence—its impossible knowing—pressed into her spine like a blade laid flat, not yet cutting.

She didn’t look at Mordecai right away.

Not because she couldn’t.

Because she shouldn’t.

Not with that much truth in his eyes.

“I didn’t know who he was,” she said finally. The words came quiet. Not soft. Just… real. “Not then."

Her hand twitched slightly at her side, like she meant to reach for the edge of her coat, or maybe her braid. But it stilled.

“It was standard procedure for council members to sign off on those things, I never read them."

She dared a glance at him through the cage.

And flinched again—not at anger.

But at what wasn’t there.

“I didn’t look deeper. I didn’t ask to.”
 

Mordecai stood tense, staff angled at his side. His glare never left the spectral Wildebeest—not even when it invoked the words he remembered too well.

A bounty. A poster. A name not spoken in years.

He didn’t flinch. Not fully. But something old pulled taut in his spine. His good eye slid toward Ephraim—just for a second. Then back to the thing that stood as her legacy made flesh.

He remembered the hunts.The cloaked guards sent into the slums.The way his name had grown teeth.

Even then, it had all been survival.

The Wildebeest’s eyes ignited with light.

"Incorrect," it said.

There was no delay.

The spirit moved like judgment given form—a blur of burning clarity. It didn’t leap. It didn’t charge. It appeared within the arc of its swing.

Mordecai reacted. Staff raised. Body pivoting.

But it wasn’t enough.

The blunt edge of the spectral battle axe connected with his ribs—not sharpened to cleave, but heavy enough to crack the breath out of him. The force slammed him sideways. His shoulder struck the jagged cage wall, the sound a mix of stone and skin. A line of blood followed down his arm.

He didn’t cry out. But he gritted his teeth so hard his jaw locked. His body slouched against the wall for a breath, ribs hitching, staff still clenched in one hand.

The wolves snarled, moving fast. Rus pressed forward with low, deliberate growls. Cer snarled viciously, skeletal jaws snapping toward the spectral Wildebeest as if trying to bite through light itself. Rus flanked him, growling low and unbroken. Ber pressed in tight to Mordecai’s side, teeth bared, all three forming a wall between their wounded master and the spirit.

Mordecai exhaled through his teeth, not looking at Ephraim now. Not yet.

He just stared at the Wildebeest—not with rage. Not with fear.

With familiarity.
A. “I didn’t know who he was. It was standard procedure.”

B. “The council feared him, and I let that fear shape my judgment.”

C. “He was dangerous. I believed justice demanded it.”

D. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
🎲Mordecai's Dice Roll: Successful Dodge attempt🎲
|1-2| Full Hit – Serious Injury
Deep gash, cracked rib, possibly collapses—he won’t die, but the pain is real. Leaves him panting, struggling to stand.

| 3–4 | Partial Hit – Moderate Injury
A hard blow knocks him down. Bruised or cut. Bleeding, but able to rise again.

| 5–6 | Glancing Blow – Light Injury
Shoulder clipped, maybe a shallow slice. He flinches but keeps moving.

| 7–8 | Dodges – Strained, But Unharmed
He ducks or blocks just in time. Shaken. Maybe a knee hits the stone. Still standing.

| 9–10 | Wolf Intervenes – Blocked
One of the wolves leaps in—slashes absorbed by bone or force, taking strain for him.
 
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1747973205862.png"Stop!" Ephraim’s voice cracked—not with power, but with fear. Not for herself.

For him.

Her hooves pounded forward across the bloom-slick meadow, only to stop at the edge of the cage. She didn’t cross the threshold. Couldn’t. She didn’t know if it would let her. Didn’t care if it would punish her too.

She reached a hand toward the barrier anyway—useless, instinctual. Her braid whipped in the wind stirred by the spirit’s strike.

Mordecai was down. Hurt. Breathing sharp through his teeth.

“I didn’t know what they were so afraid of!” she shouted, voice raw. “Only that they were afraid! And I—” her words caught, breath shuddering, “

Her hand clenched into a fist at her side. Not in defiance.

In shame.

“I was young, " she pleaded.

She turned her eyes—not to the Wildebeest, but to Mordecai.

And finally, said it.

“I chose their fear over my doubt. I let it shape me."

Not for the first time. But maybe the first time it reached the part of her that still wanted to be right.

Her voice dropped low.

“I let it happen, I didn't know him personally. He was just a nameless criminal in my mind."
 
The spectral Wildebeest stood still for a breath, axe poised in eerie silence. Mordecai backed away, slow and tight in motion. The wolves stayed in formation, snarling low as they mirrored his steps—Ber on his left flank, Rus ahead, Cer trailing just behind, shoulders stiff.

Then Ephraim’s voice broke through the air.

He didn’t respond at first.

But when she kept speaking—when she said it—his jaw twitched. His good eye narrowed.

“I don’t care, Ephraim!” Mordecai snapped suddenly. Sharp. Low.

Not cruel. But cutting. Desperate.

“It doesn’t change anything. Not now.”

His voice didn’t tremble. But something in it did crack.

The Wildebeest gave no pause.

“Incorrect.”

It moved again.

This time the swing was broader. A sweeping, brutal arc from above—the spectral axe raised high, then hurled downward like divine weight made war.

The wolves responded first.

Rus lunged low, clamping onto the Wildebeest’s ankle, spectral sparks flying from contact. Ber snarled and lunged, teeth gripping Mordecai’s tattered cloak, yanking him off balance just as the axe came down.

And Cer—

Cer leapt.

His entire black furred frame collided with the Wildebeest mid-swing, massive jaws locking around its raised arm. The blow staggered. It faltered. The axe veered wide.

But not for long.

With a single, violent twist, the Wildebeest swung its arm outward—flinging Cer off. The wolf slammed into the stone bars of the cage. The impact cracked across the field.

“Cer!” Mordecai’s voice cracked out—this time not with anger. But alarm.

Cer dropped.

For a second.

Then rose again.

Bones rattled. His growl deepened. He didn’t limp. He didn’t blink. He stood his ground, chest heaving, and roared.

Not like an animal.

Like something willing to bleed for the one inside.
A. “I didn’t know who he was. It was standard procedure.”

B. “The council feared him, and I let that fear shape my judgment.”

C. “He was dangerous. I believed justice demanded it.”

D. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
 
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“Stop—wait, stop, stop!” Ephraim shouted, stumbling toward the cage, hooves catching in the wildflowers. “Don’t hurt him again—I’m—I’m trying to remember! Just give me a second!”

Her voice cracked, desperate, ragged. Her hands shot out toward the spectral guard like she could tear it apart with sheer will. Her chest heaved, and her braid slipped loose over her shoulder as she spun, wide-eyed, to the cage—to Mordecai.

“I knew! I knew who you were!” she screamed. “I read the report myself! I signed it! No-one else had the authority..."

The words hit like vomiting poison. Too fast. Too much. But true.

Her breath hiccupped, fast and uneven, hands curling against her temples like she could scrape the shame out with her nails.

“They said there was a goatkin practicing unlicensed. A radical healer and a mockery to the city. And I—I looked at that and I didn’t even care if it was true!” she shouted. “You looked like me and I wanted you gone!”

She whirled back to the Wildebeest. “He’s not a criminal anymore! He never was, no more than anyone else in that city."

The cage hummed with judgment.

“I was scared, okay?! Of the way they looked at me. At all of us Goatkin. And I thought if I just gave them you, they'd think I was different.”

Her voice cracked again. Barely audible now. But she forced the last words through gritted teeth.

“I threw you to them. Because I wanted to be clean.”

She staggered, then dropped to her knees in the flowers, choking on the last confession.

“I’m not.”
 

Mordecai steadied himself, Ber pressing into his side, helping him rise. He leaned on his staff, one hand white-knuckled around the shaft. His breath was steadying, but his eyes—hard.

Cer and Rus circled the spectral Wildebeest, jaws snapping at the air, muscles coiled and tense. They didn’t lunge. Not yet. But they were waiting for a reason.

The Wildebeest stood still, its axe planted like a monument. Its eyes glowed briefly.

“Correct,” it said.

A pause.

Then Mordecai turned his gaze to Ephraim.

His face was unreadable. Empty—not in apathy, but in calculation. He looked at her like someone remembering something they had already buried.

“Criminals,” he echoed.

The word sounded strange in his voice. Not painful. Just hollow. Worn.

“I never cared what they called me.”

His voice was low. Cold. Threaded with that old Unity Haven tone. The one that didn’t flinch.

“A criminal. A monster. A threat. That was survival. That was control.”

He spat onto the cage floor, blood tinting the motion dark.

“That’s why I lasted. Because fear worked. Because the moment they feared me more than they pitied me—”

He met her eyes.

“—I became untouchable.”

His fingers flexed around the staff.

“Unity Haven feared me. And they should have.”

There was no bitterness. Just fact. Cold. Heavy. Settled.

“They hunted me. Ambushed me. Sold me out for rations. They tried to drag me into the gutter and bury me there.”

He tilted his head slightly, blood streaked at his jaw.

“And in the end... it wasn’t me who fell.”

He looked at the Wildebeest next. And his voice sharpened.

“I taught every one of your guards what happens when you test something that refuses to break.”

The wolves growled in unison.

Not in defense. But agreement.
The air around her rippled. Ephraim is now experiencing a brief memory, she sees the whole thing but it time wise it only flashes for a few seconds but she gets the full memory:

A memory cracked open. Not hers. Not entirely. Just a flicker.

The alley was narrow, slick with runoff, and choked in shadow—the kind of place where people disappeared and never returned. Mordecai was older then. Grey-furred. Seventies, maybe. Limping. Bent at the spine with age, but not weakness. Every motion he made was deliberate. Calculated. The cane in his hand was not just for support. It was bait.

Two Wildebeest guards closed in from the alley’s mouth, both armored, both confident. They recognized him. The glint of recognition turned sharp. They thought age made him soft. That was their mistake.

Mordecai didn’t speak.

He moved.

The cane cracked into one guard’s knee with a sound like split timber. As he collapsed, Mordecai twisted the cane’s shaft and out snapped a hidden bayonet—long, jagged, surgical. He drove it under the ribs, lifted, and tore. Blood sprayed across the alley wall as the Wildebeest dropped, choking on his own air.

The second one charged, barking a command. Mordecai’s coat shifted. He didn’t flinch. A glass vial slipped from his sleeve—smashed against the stone. Gas erupted, green and chemical. The Wildebeest stumbled, wheezing.

Mordecai didn’t wait.

He closed the gap with ghost-silent steps, plunged a curved dagger into the soft tissue below the jaw, and pushed up. The Wildebeest twitched, eyes wide. Mordecai leaned close—not to whisper, but to watch the light leave. Then he let the body fall, limp and twitching, like garbage.

He stood over the two corpses, breathing through his nose. Unmoved. Unbothered. Blood splattered across his coat. A faint smile touched his lips—thin, private, inevitable.

Then he tapped his cane twice against the stone, turned, and vanished into the dark.

No one came looking.

The memory vanished as fast as it came.

But Ephraim had seen it.

All of it.
The spectral wildebeest stood unmoving. It's eyes flashed again and then it's voice spoke:

Question:
“Ashen brought the gallows to the table. But it was your seal that made them real. You oversaw the build. You selected the prisoners. And you called it duty. What did you call it the night you signed it?”

Choices:
A. “A necessity. Someone had to keep things from unraveling.”
B. “A message. I thought fear would bring peace.”
C. “A compromise. I hoped it would never be used.”
D. “A mistake. One I couldn’t admit at the time.”
 
Ephraim didn’t breathe at first.

Not because she couldn’t. But because her body forgot how. The weight of that memory—the alley, the blood, the cane and the smile that wasn’t really a smile—hit her in the lungs like a boulder made of past lives. Her hands went slack at her sides. Her hooves felt too heavy to lift. Her mouth parted, but no sound came.

Not like someone who had to become a monster just to survive her paperwork.

Her gaze dropped to the ground as Mordecai spoke, but she didn’t miss a word. His voice was steel. Not sharp. Just... settled. Solid. Like something forged for war and finally accepting it had never been made for peace. And the worst part?

She couldn’t blame him.

She tried. The guilt scrambled up her throat like it wanted to confess more, to make it right, but nothing came out that wasn’t already too late. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves.

He hadn’t looked at her when he said those things. Not at first. But she knew he was watching. She knew because when her breath caught—when her shoulders shook just once—Cerberus didn’t move.

They waited.

So did she.

And then came the next question. The gallows.

That one broke through.

Her eyes lifted—snapping to the Wildebeest with raw defiance.

But her voice didn’t match. It cracked. It wavered. And it came slow.

“A message,” she said. “I called it... a message.”

“I thought if they feared the rope, they’d stop long before needing it.” Her voice rasped out of her like she’d swallowed something too hot. “I was... tired. And angry. And—depressed, if you want the word for it.”

She blinked hard.

“Every room felt like a scream I couldn’t fix. And Unity Haven was coming apart at the seams. I thought—if I gave a symbol—just one clear, terrifying thing—they’d fall in line. And we’d have peace.”

Her voice wavered again, but she swallowed it down.

“I thought it would be used only once or twice, and I selected prisoners who were either known to have magic or were criminals, because I thought that we'd either eliminate the threat or no-one would care if they died. I had them look in the underground for the first selections."

She looked up—right at Mordecai this time.
 

The Wildebeest stood still, its battle axe grounded like a monument. It didn’t move. Didn’t strike.

The wolves lowered into formation again—Cer, Rus, and Ber forming a living triangle around Mordecai, skeletal jaws wide, tails high, muscles coiled with protective instinct. They didn’t need a signal. They felt the shift.

Mordecai stood behind them. Staff clenched. Shoulders taut. His breathing was sharp, tired, like every answer carved a little more weight onto his ribs.

Then the Wildebeest’s voice rang out.

“Correct.”

The axe did not rise.

And yet—

Mordecai’s breath hitched.

His arm trembled.

It came fast—unexpected. His good eye welled. The pupil widened, not with rage or focus, but with something older. Deeper. His fingers shook on the staff. Not from exhaustion. From fear.

Not the kind that comes from losing a fight.

The kind that remembers too much.

He froze. Still standing—but suddenly smaller in posture. His frame no longer holding pride but panic. The kind that doesn’t belong to a man shaped by war, but a boy once trapped in it.

Rus turned.

He stopped snarling.

Head jerked toward Mordecai. Ears flattened. Tail dropped. He stepped back—not from fear of the Wildebeest—but from a deeper empathy.

Mordecai was faltering—not in strength, but in something more fragile. Something younger.

Mordecai didn’t look at Ephraim.

But his voice cracked—not low and cold, but soft.

“Ephraim... p-please help me—”

Barely a whisper.

Not spoken like a threat.

But like a memory trying to claw free.

The Wildebeest did not move.

Its eyes flared again.

And the voice rang out:

Question:

“The gallows burned. The resistance’s fire lit the sky, and the slums cheered. But the next morning—you didn’t question the gallows. You questioned who handed them the match. What did you recommend in council?”

Choices:
A. “That we double the bounty on the arsonist and root out any kin giving them shelter.”
B. “That we install watchtowers in the slums and enforce permanent curfew.”
C. “That we authorize immediate detainment for anyone caught with fire-making materials.”
D. “That we burn their safehouses as a message.”
 
Ephraim’s heart lodged somewhere behind her ribs. She wasn’t even sure it was beating right—just twitching in her chest like a stuck gear.

That voice—

Not the Wildebeest’s. His.

Mordecai’s.

She nearly collapsed at it.

Her hooves locked in place, knees soft, breath sharp in her throat. There was no time to panic, but her whole body wanted to. She didn’t know where to look.

And she couldn’t lie again.

Not when his voice sounded like that.

But gods, she wasn’t sure.

She clutched her arms tightly across her chest, trying to summon the memory like pulling weeds from frozen earth. It hadn’t mattered, not then. Just a sentence. Just a vote. Just a breath between meetings, one line among a hundred.

“I think—” Her voice broke, and she started again. Louder this time, but unsure. “I think... I said we should raise the bounty.”

She blinked hard, looking away from the Wildebeest’s glow, trying not to look at Mordecai, either.

“It was chaos, after the fires. People were panicked, and I—I said the arsonist must’ve been a plant. That they had help. And if we didn’t respond strong... it would happen again.”

Her fingers dug into her own sleeves, claws bunching the fabric, "P-please, stop this,"
 
The Wildebeest stood still, hands wrapped firm around the haft of its battle axe, unmoving. Watching. Waiting.

Its eyes flared with silent verdict.

“Correct,” it said. No praise. No relief. Just the truth.

Mordecai stayed pressed against the cage wall. The wolves, snarling, backed with him—still tense, still defensive, but no longer surging forward. Their formation had tightened into something quiet. Something bracing.

His breath shook. A few tears slid down his face—one tracing a line through the blood dried at his jaw.

But then...

Something shifted.

Not in the Wildebeest. Not in the wolves.

In him.

The tears stopped. The last few blinked away. His body stiffened. The veins near his scarred eye pulsed, faint but vivid, a flicker of violet blooming just beneath the skin.

He didn’t look at the Wildebeest. His gaze drifted downward, slack-jawed, one hand braced against the cage for support. The other gripped his staff tight enough to tremble.

He looked at Ephraim.

But not really.

His gaze was through her—like she was part of the surface, but not the image beneath. His stare reached deeper, past here, past now.

The air shifted—not wind, but weight. Ephraim felt it in her ribs, not her ears. Like pressure pushing inward, ancient and sorrowful.

It wasn’t the Wildebeest.

It wasn’t Mordecai’s mouth.

But it was his voice.

“They killed my son.”

The words rippled through the island. Through the memory. Through her.

And then—a fracture of time split open.

A different day. A different Unity Haven. No flames. No chains. No gallows.

Just something lost.

It was early—sun low, light thick. Mordecai walked alone.

Age bent him now, cane tapping the gravel in steady beats. A sack hung over his shoulder from the far market. No one spoke to him. He liked it that way.

Tall gold grass swayed around him. Insects hummed. The path led to a shack, barely standing, part ruin, part warning.1747979044704.png

He reached the crooked door. Stopped. Heard something move inside.

A breath. Not wind.

He drew his cane, twisted the cap—bayonet released with a hiss.

He slammed the door open. "Who's in here?!"

Scuffling. A blur. Then stillness.

A fox child. Eight, maybe. Skinny, wild-eyed. Clothes torn, hair messy, feet bare.

"I-I'm sorry! I was just—I needed food—"

Mordecai stared, blade still raised.

That look. That fear. He knew it.

He lowered the cane. The bayonet retracted.

They stared at each other.

Quiet.

Then:

"You hungry, fox?"
It was later now. The sun had begun to sink, casting rust-orange light across the broken shack and the overgrown field beyond. Mordecai sat outside on a splintered crate, hunched slightly, cigarette burning between two fingers. Across from him sat the fox child—Silvano, he’d said his name was—legs dangling, kicking lightly in the air.

They weren’t close. Mordecai made sure of that.

Silvano was busy with an apple, snacking like he hadn’t eaten in days. Which, by the looks of him, he probably hadn’t. Dirt still clung to his fur, scratches mapped his arms, but he had that unmistakable, annoying glint of spirit.

"Mmf—fanks fer the foo’,” Silvano mumbled mid-chew, crumbs sticking to his chin as he grinned with his mouth half full.

Mordecai didn’t look at him. Just exhaled a breath of smoke and muttered, “Hmph.”

Silvano watched him. 1747979095341.png

The way the old goat didn’t face him. The way his walls weren’t just up—they were fortified. And yet… here they sat.

“You don’t like to talk a lot, do you?” Silvano asked, not scared. Just curious.

Mordecai gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Most don’t get the chance. I tend to silence them first.”

Blunt. Dry. Final.

Silvano blinked, then smirked. “Ohhh, I get it. You’re that grumpy old man type.”

He laughed—light, mischievous. Fox laughter.

Mordecai turned just enough to glance at him. “Don’t test me, child.”

Silvano’s legs kept swinging. He dropped the apple core onto the grass, reached for another, and bit in like this was normal. Like this was fine.

Silence settled again.

But Mordecai didn’t make him leave.
Silvano was older now. Thirteen. Taller. Still a menace. Still charming. He never stayed long—just long enough. Mordecai made it clear he didn’t want company, but never quite made Silvano leave either.

The fox had grown into a shadow of the wind—coming and going, surviving easily. Their meetings were check-ins. Nothing regular. But Mordecai always knew when one was coming. He felt it in his bones.

They were docked at an old houseboat—one of the few that hadn’t sunk into the wrecked yard on Unity Haven’s edge. Storm-wrecked, forgotten, but still afloat. Mordecai sat in a rusted chair, two old fishing poles laid nearby. He was alone.

Until he wasn’t.

“I see you’ve already gotten some entertainment prepared!” a voice called. Theatrical. Proud.

Mordecai didn’t look up. Just sighed, shifting through the tackle box.

Silvano appeared with a grin, hopping up on the houseboat’s edge. “You are not going to believe this—”

He dove into a story: rooftops, guards, a market apple, a chase. Classic fox chaos.

“So I leap off the roof,” he said, pantomiming with his hands, “land on this awning—total accident, by the way—and boom! Right on top of the guard. His hat flies off. His pants fall down. I’m gone before he can shout my name!”

Mordecai gave a sharp “Hmph.”

“At least your tail’s still intact.”

Silvano laughed and took the pole Mordecai passed him. It was a janky setup, cobbled together from scrap, but he treated it like treasure.

He dropped beside Mordecai and cast the line.

“Alright, my fish friends! Prepare yourselves for the greatest fisher-fox the world has ever seen!”

With a wild swing, he smacked Mordecai square on the head. The line tangled instantly around his horns.

“Silvano!!”

“Whoops—hold still!” Silvano leaned in, tongue out, trying to fix it.

“Don’t—”

Too late. He yanked. Mordecai lurched forward, pole dropping, horns caught. Chaos.

Mordecai’s abandoned pole twitched. Something pulled. Then—gone. It splashed into the water, dragged beneath.

Mordecai reached but missed.

They stood at the edge. Watching the ripples.

Silvano beamed. “I’d say that was a wildly successful fishing trip, wouldn’t you?”

Mordecai didn’t reply. Just smacked a hand to Silvano’s back and pushed him into the water.

“AAAH—!” Splash.

He didn’t surface.

Mordecai leaned forward, serious now. “Silvano?”

Bubbles. Then—

Silvano burst up with a bamboo reed in his mouth, blowing a stream of water right into Mordecai’s face.

Mordecai didn’t flinch. Just stared, dripping.

Silvano cackled. “You really do love me, old man.”
Time moved on. Their rhythm stayed the same.

Silvano came and went. Mordecai allowed it—but just barely. The fox brought trouble, gifts, silence, or laughter. Mordecai grumbled, but never turned him away.

He saw himself in Silvano. Castiel, once. Same orphaned glare. Same survival instinct.

But Silvano had something Mordecai didn’t—joy. That stubborn, infuriating spark that wouldn’t die.

He was a street rat. But he was Mordecai’s street rat.

Eventually, Mordecai said, "You don’t get to call me father."

Not as rejection. As protection.

Silvano understood.

They never said it again.

But they both knew.

Father. Son. Quiet as truth.
Mordecai’s shoulders shuddered, but he didn’t fall. His eye blinked rapidly. He gave a small shake of his head, pulling away from whatever ghost had just brushed his spine.

He didn’t speak.

But the weight in the air hadn’t left.

The Wildebeest’s eyes lit once more.

And the voice rose again:

Question:

“You selected the condemned. You knew most by file alone. Did you ever ask if they deserved it?”

A. “It wasn’t my place to decide. That was the Council’s role.”
B. “Some were dangerous. Others... I wasn’t sure.”
C. “They didn’t matter. Not then. Only order did.”
D. “I tried to stop some. But I failed.”
 


“It wasn’t my place to decide,” she said, the words shaped before she could soften them. “That was the Council’s role. I reviewed the names, yes, but the final orders were collective—voted, ratified—”

The Wildebeest didn’t react. Not yet. But the silence it cast was colder than any blade.

She swallowed. Her ears twitched.

Mordecai hadn’t spoken again. He just watched. Still caged. Still bleeding.

Still listening.

Ephraim forced herself to keep going, voice tighter now. “I... I was the the only woman. The only goatkin. They trusted me with the lists because it looked better. It was symbolic. It wasn’t power—it was presentation.”

She could hear herself rambling. Hear the way her sentences started sharp, then trailed off like they were trying to dodge the edges.

Her hooves shifted. A flower bent beneath her, its stem nearly breaking.

“They didn't really consult me, I mean, if they did, they knew what they wanted," she lied. “Not really. I—”

She stopped.

A breath left her like she'd bitten into something sour.

Because she remembered something. A room. The table. The way they’d slid the parchment toward her. No words. Just expectation. And the pen.

Not a command.

An invitation.

Her throat tightened.

The Wildebeest said nothing.

But it didn’t need to.

The question still hung between them like smoke.

Did you ever ask if they deserved it?

Ephraim’s jaw clenched. Her fingers curled at her sides.

She hadn’t. Not once.

But she wasn’t ready to say that.

Not yet.

Not out loud.

The silence lingered—not dead, but expectant. As if the island itself had turned its ear toward her chest, listening for the truth she was still trying to bury beneath reason.

Ephraim’s tongue felt thick in her mouth.

She looked at Mordecai. Really looked this time.

He was still behind the bars. Still flanked by wolves. But the worst part wasn't his wounds—it was his expression. The stillness. The patience. Not blind trust. Not hope.

Just waiting.

Like he’d always known this moment would come.

Her stomach turned.

She opened her mouth again. Nothing came.

Then finally—

“I didn’t ask,” she said. Her voice cracked around the edge. “I didn’t ask if they deserved it.”

Her arms folded across her chest, like she could armor herself with her own elbows. Like that made her smaller, or safer.

“I...didn’t care if they died,” she muttered, barely audible. “Not then.”

She let the words hang, as brittle and ugly as they sounded. She didn’t rush to explain them. She couldn't.

The meadow dimmed slightly, like clouds had shifted above. The color didn’t drain, but it muted—like even the field was holding its breath.

She took another step forward. Her hooves sank deeper into the moss this time.

“It wasn’t justice,” she said. “Not really. It was structure. I liked structure. I liked rules. I liked knowing where things fit.”

Another breath. Shaky. Shame creeping up her throat like steam.

“And maybe... maybe I liked that it was me doing it,” she whispered.

Her gaze fell to the flowers beneath her feet. She didn’t want to look at him. Not now.

“I was small,” she said, voice hollow. “I was weak. My whole life. And suddenly they wanted me to sign the orders. The woman. The goatkin. The one who didn’t belong anywhere but the margins. Suddenly I was the clean face of the prisons, the gallows.."

She almost laughed.

Didn’t.

“There was a time I enjoyed it,” she admitted, hands gripping the folds of her coat now. “I liked the way people looked at me. Like I was fair. Like I was mercy. Like I was clean.”

She let that sit. A crown made of rusted thorns.

Then, finally, she lifted her head again—eyes rimmed with something wet.

“But it wasn’t clean.”

She didn’t say the rest.

Not yet.

The next truth would hurt worse.

The words barely faded before the Wildebeest stirred again. Its eyes flared once—not brighter, but deeper. The axe did not rise. No judgment came.

Because none was needed.

The truth had already begun its own sentence.

Ephraim stayed still.

The wind in the meadow picked up, curling around her braid, lifting the hem of her coat like it was trying to coax her to run. But she didn’t move. Her feet were rooted. Not by defiance. Not by courage.

By recognition.

And regret.

“I didn’t see them,” she said at last. Her voice was no longer cracked or defensive. It was something worse.

Calm.

“I didn’t see the condemned. Not really. Just... the record. The assignment. A face, maybe. But not the person. Not the family. Not the whole.”

She looked at Mordecai.

This time, she let herself see the blood drying at his temple. The bruise forming on his ribs. The wolves still bracing beside him, panting. Tired. Still protecting.

And she saw him.

Older. Wounded. Still standing.

But with the eyes of someone who had known mercy only through his own hands—and punishment from everyone else’s.

“You weren’t one of them, Mordecai,” she said softly. “I never thought of you that way. You weren’t from the underground, not really. You were... separate. Untouchable. And I never asked why. You didn't talk like them, or act like them. Those were just stories from your past, before we rebuilt our life together. You didn't choose that life, if the coin had flipped in your favor, you would of chosen where I was sitting too."

She laughed bitterly. “I wouldn’t have gone down there even if you asked me to. Not then.”

Her voice dropped, lower now.

“And if I had... maybe I wouldn’t have survived it. Maybe I wouldn’t be here. Maybe I’d still be her.”

Her fists clenched.

“And maybe that’s the part I hate most—that if Unity Haven made me choose again, I might’ve still signed it.”

She turned her face away, jaw tight.

“Because someone would have. And I wanted it to be me.”

The words tasted like ash in her mouth.

1747981268717.png“I was their excuse,” she said. “Their shield. Their lie, made real. Goatkin. Female. Small. Suffering. The world saw me and thought: well, if she can do it, maybe it’s not so cruel.”

She took one trembling breath.

“But it was.”

The island said nothing. Neither did the Wildebeest. It didn’t need to.

Because the ground cracked again—just faintly—and through it, another lotus bloomed.

At her feet this time.

Not a curse.

Not a threat.

Just... there.

Like even guilt, given long enough, could flower into truth. Or maybe just recognition.

Ephraim looked down at it.

Then—finally—up at him.

“I can’t take it back,” she said.

Her voice didn’t shake.

She was shaking. But her voice didn’t.
 
Malformed Change - Ramura
  • Index
    • The air was still—not in silence, but in weight. Ephraim's words fell like stones into water: quiet, but impossible to ignore. The Wildebeest did not respond at first. It didn’t need to. The stillness itself was a verdict.

    Mordecai stood within the cage, unmoving. His eyes were unfocused, glazed with a distant film. His grip on the staff twitched, fingers spasming in small, irregular pulses. He wasn’t here—not fully. The wolves circled slowly at his feet, muscles coiled tight, tails stiff.
    Unity Haven Mordecai:
    "So she liked the gallows. Of course she did,"
    "She sold her own kind out to preserve her name. We bled while she polished her titles. They fear the demon until they need it. Then they beg it to return."
    Castiel Mordecai:
    "S-So what was it all for...?"
    "Did she ever really see us back then? That was our first life. That’s where it began. Was she just—just using us?"

    Mordecai’s hand shot to his temple, pressing into his skull. His jaw clenched, breath caught. He staggered slightly—then steadied.

    The Wildebeest stirred.

    Its spectral eyes flared, and the voice returned:

    "The question remains unanswered."
    "But the silence between the lines spoke."
    "This reflection was not to punish. It was to recall. And you... remembered."

    Around the cage, the lotuses pulsed in faint resonance—an acknowledgment, not a release. A moment of sacred stillness.

    Mordecai exhaled, slow and rough. His hand dropped. Beneath his tattered coat, a subtle glow lit along his spine—violet and pulsing. The curse rooted in his third chakra flared to life, veins branching in jagged lines up his neck, toward the crack of his ruined eye. His breathing deepened, not from fear, but from threshold.

    When his eyes opened again, they were no longer hollow.

    Ramura was here.

    The wolves—Cer, Ber, and Rus—held formation. But something began to shift beneath their paws. The earth vibrated. Purple energy swirled in ghostly trails around their feet and Mordecai’s. Their outlines wavered. Shadow coiled like breath.

    Then the rupture.

    The three wolves dissolved into darkness—shadows tearing and rejoining, their bodies swallowed in a wind that howled like a lament. From the heart of that maelstrom, they reformed: not three, but one.

    Cerberus.

    Massive. Feral. Bristling with crackling purple auroras that shimmered across black fur and skeletal heads. All three skulls snarled in unison, their eye sockets burning with cursed light. They didn’t wait. They stood ready.

    Mordecai remained behind them, shoulders squared, eyes low. His fingers lifted slightly, tracing small motions in the air. Threads of violet magic spun around his digits—subtle, controlled.

    Spell Level:Spell Name Spell Description
    2Abyssal Grasp A dark dragon emerges, enveloping enemies in shadows that drain life and strength.

    Then—

    Cerberus moved.

    Like lightning embodied. Their limbs slammed into stance, body coiled in a wide, fluid arc—tense, beautiful, feral. A growl built in their throats, not from lungs, but from will. Energy surged beneath their fur, purple veins glowing as the spell reached full breath.

    From their back, three towering hydra trails erupted—long, spectral necks of shadow and curse-magic, rising like summoned spirits. Each ended in a ghostly skeletal wolf head, jaws open, glowing, hissing.

    They hovered for a breath—then lunged.



    Cerberus roared.

    “̷H̷̷R̷̷R̷̷R̷̷R̷̷A̷̷A̷̷A̷̷K̷̷K̷̷K̷̷K̷-̷K̷̷R̷̷A̷̷U̷̷U̷̷U̷̷U̷̷N̷̷N̷-̷W̷̷R̷̷A̷̷O̷̷O̷̷O̷̷U̷̷L̷!!”

    The sound cracked the air—vibrating like bones inside a funeral bell. Divine. Terrible. The hydra heads slammed forward: one clamped the Wildebeest’s bicep, another seized the battle axe, and the third latched onto the throat.

    No scream. The Wildebeest held form. But the light within it cracked.1748030324819.png

    Purple veins spidered from the bite marks, webbing through its spectral body. The cracks deepened—then shattered. Like glass fracturing beneath a scream.

    With one final pulse, the Wildebeest exploded into a wave of shimmering light, falling like silver dust.

    But Cerberus was not done.

    They spun, hydra heads lashing. One clamped a cage bar. Another wrenched the stone. The third bit deep. The structure groaned. Cracked. Collapsed inward.

    “SꝀɌɎɎȺȺȺᵾᵾNN-ꝀŦĦĦĦĦĦĦɌɌɌǤĦĦ!!”

    Their cry tore through the meadow. Bars snapped. Earth trembled. And then, like a structure never meant to remain, the cage folded—drawn back into the field below.

    Only wildflowers remained.

    Mordecai stood still. One hand raised. One eye half-closed.

    Cerberus exhaled steam and lowered slightly. The hydra spell retreated, spectral trails folding back into their spine. The glow dimmed. The battlefield was silent again.

    But they were still standing.

    All of them.

    The land went still. Just the gentle breeze against the flowers as they stood there again. Mordecai exhaled—somewhat gently, but also heavily—like releasing a weight long held in his ribs. His expression was quiet, eyes closed as the breath left him. Cerberus still stood beside him, silent, statuesque.

    Then, the island shifted.

    Not violently. Not with quake or tremor. Just... awakening. A truth answering truth.

    Behind Mordecai, the soil stirred. A single green sprout breached the ground, trembling faintly. Then it surged upward—not rushed, but inevitable. A tree began to grow. Tall. Gentle. Familiar. Its branches stretched outward in slow arcs, and from them, long draping leaves unfurled. The breeze caught them gently as they fell into place—like memory itself being hung in the air.

    A willow tree. Towering. Rooted. Weeping, not in sorrow, but in remembrance.

    But it did not stand alone.

    Before the tree, the ground rippled. Earth cracked—not violently, but with purpose, as if drawing breath. A shape rose—a large, oval mound of stone. Blank at first. Unformed.

    Then—1748035262458.png

    The outer shell began to fall away, gravel cascading like chisel dust. Something invisible worked within, carving without touch. Shards tumbled loose as the statue emerged.

    Cerberus.

    Majestic. Four-legged. Carved from old, veined stone. Their body low and solid, sitting upright. Three skeletal wolf heads crowned the form—one facing left, one right, one forward. Each expression was different: watchful, mournful, resolute.

    The willow behind them whispered in the breeze, its branches trailing down across the statue’s back like anointing.

    Mordecai turned.

    He didn’t rush. Just stepped toward it. Cerberus mirrored him, walking with silent obedience. They stood before the new monument together.

    Mordecai knelt.

    His fingers brushed the front of the base, where new-carved words shone faintly in the moonlight:

    𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕.
    𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗.
    𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝.
    𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍.
    𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎.
    𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜.

    He read it silently, eyes tracing the words as if they'd always been waiting for him.

    He did not turn away.

    Not yet.

    Behind Ephraim, something else stirred. The ground shifted again—softly this time, as if exhaling a memory. Behind her, a structure rose from the earth. A large stone chair—its form regal, tall, shaped like the old council seats of Unity Haven. But it was changed. Time had moved through it.1748035317823.png

    Moss clung to its arms and seat. Lotus vines wrapped around its base, climbing in uneven patches. Blossoms bloomed along the cracks—not overtaking, but reclaiming. The weight of its shape no longer threatened. It invited. Behind, on the back of the chair appeared an engraving:

    𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝙸 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍.
    𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.
    𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖.
    𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛.

    And behind the chair, something else bloomed.

    A magnolia tree.

    It rose with grace. Soft but tall. Its wide branches stretched slowly overhead. Pale blossoms, creamy white and blushing pink, hung gently over the arch of the chair, resting above like a crown never claimed.

    Now they stood across from each other—statue and chair. Willow and magnolia.

    The Cerberus statue, backed by the weeping willow, stared directly across the wildflower field.The stone chair, softened by lotus and draped by magnolia, stared back.

    Between them, the wildflower field stirred. Lotus blossoms began to rise, mixing among the blooms—not overtaking, but meeting. Purple, gold, and white reached out across the clearing. A slow convergence.

    The land did not speak. It did not need to.

    They were both part of it now.

    And it had remembered.

    1748035343491.png
     
    Last edited:
  • Index
    • Ephraim had not moved.

    Her legs were capable, her body trained to respond under pressure, but none of that mattered in this moment. Her hooves sank into the flower-strewn earth like roots, heavy and locked. She watched the cage collapse, watched the violet magic burn like a wound turned inside-out, and still she didn’t move.

    Because something deeper than panic had gripped her.

    Something she had no words for.

    Even now, with the danger passed, her mind clawed for meaning. For bearing. For control. She could hear her own breath again, and that helped. But the moment Mordecai whispered that plea—“Please help me”—something inside her cracked, and the sound still echoed inside her ribs.

    Cerberus had answered that plea. Not her.

    Her mouth was dry. Her heart beat like it was trying to outrun something she hadn’t yet confessed.

    The wolves were gone. Cerberus stood whole. The Witherwilds were still, and Mordecai—Mordecai had made a statue out of pain and will. He had named it with memory, not bitterness. A monument of self-recognition.

    Then came the chair.

    She heard it rise before she turned.

    The sound wasn’t harsh—just the quiet, inevitable shift of earth moving to accommodate legacy. When she finally looked, her breath caught again.

    It was unmistakable. The curve. The height. The severity softened by moss and time.

    A council chair.

    Her chair.

    But it was not as she remembered it. The stone bore none of Unity Haven’s pristine smugness, it was dressed in vines and humility. The lotus curled around its base like old blood turned to root. It didn’t accuse her.

    It remembered her.

    And beyond it—the magnolia. Pale, full, serene. Not demanding. Not condemning.

    Just there.

    She stepped toward it. Slowly. Her hooves brushed through wildflowers she no longer had words for. She passed between the Cerberus monument and the chair, drawn to the balance of them. Predator and judge. Memory and will. Loss and silence.

    She stopped at the chair’s base, eyes lifting to the inscription.

    She read it once.

    Then again.

    Her hands trembled. But she didn’t look away.

    “None spared me from myself.”

    The words burned. Not like a brand, but like truth finally returning to its origin.

    She reached out. Her hand met the stone. She felt the cold, the rough edge of time worked by magic. Her palm flattened against the moss-veined surface.

    And then—only then—did she look back at Mordecai.

    He was kneeling still. By his statue. By his wolves. His back was to her.

    Good.

    She didn’t want him to see her eyes yet.

    Because her expression wasn’t strong. It wasn’t soft, either. It was raw. That stripped-bare place where the things you hate about yourself are louder than your voice.

    She wanted to call his name. She wanted to explain.

    But there was nothing left to explain.

    So she just stood there. Between their monuments. Between the witness and the weight.
     
    Mordecai did not move. He remained kneeling at the base of the statue, his hand resting gently near the engraving, eyes lifting to trace the forms above—Cerberus, in their still, solemn majesty. Each head looked in its own direction, each expression carved with a purpose that didn’t need translation.

    He exhaled. Not a sigh. Not quite relief. But something solid. A breath that had waited too long to be let go.

    This didn’t surprise him. The form. The direction. The permanence. It was how it should be. Cerberus had always been three made one. And so had he.

    Cer’s fierceness, always the first to strike, yet always shielding. Ber’s quiet, thoughtful control—the patience between storms. And Rus—still so young, but honest in a way none of them had been. The softness buried deepest. All of them had teeth. But not all of them were cruelty.

    They had always been Cerberus. Not because they fused cleanly, but because they never let go of each other.

    Above him, Cerberus stood like a monument made living. Their breath slow. Their body settled. Regal, not threatening. Like a mountain that had weathered fire and now sat whole again.

    Mordecai rose slowly, pressing into the ground with his staff. His body ached—bruises, tension, exhaustion—but the movement felt... earned.

    He reached up. One hand to Cerberus’s chest. Then to their neck. Then to the base of one skull. He scratched beneath one bony ear.

    Cerberus let out a low, delighted whine. Their tail thumped once. Then again.

    All three heads dipped, playful and slow. They leaned forward—nuzzling him, pressing their skulls into his shoulder, his hair, the side of his face. Their bony brows bumped his chest like pups too large for their own joy.

    The push nearly toppled him.

    He let out a quiet, breath-worn laugh. Tired. But real.

    "Thank you," he whispered, rubbing along their fur again, hand moving with care.

    Beyond them, down past the edge of the wildflowers, something shifted.

    Along the tree line, where the meadow curled into shadow, a shape emerged. Not loud. Not dangerous. Just... there.

    A creature—four-legged, long-limbed, delicate as breath. Its body was bark-like, with texture like withering wood. Its antlers were forming still, tiny branches curled upward. Its face was long, smooth, empty.

    Except for the tear.

    One golden tear, suspended from where it's eye should have been like a memory that refused to fall. 1748050809684.png

    It stood still.

    Its head turned—toward Ephraim first. It watched her.

    Then, its gaze slowly moved. It turned to the Cerberus statue. To the willow behind it. To the distance between.

    Then it turned again—to her.

    And walked away.

    No sound. Just slow, graceful steps into the woods, swallowed by the branches.

    Mordecai gave Cerberus one last pat, then turned.

    He didn’t close the distance. But he looked.

    He saw her.

    A few slow steps forward. Not aggressive. Not hesitant. Just steady.

    Cerberus stood beside him.

    “The Witherwilds is a place of reflection and clarity,” Mordecai said, voice low but certain. “It wants you to understand things within yourself. Not punishment. But for recognition. And claiming.”

    He looked across the space between them.

    “It’s a mirror and it shapes."
     
    Ephraim didn’t answer right away.

    She stood near the chair still, hand fallen to her side now, but the weight of it—the memory of it—still pressed into her palm like stone. Like signature. Like a verdict that had finally signed her name instead of someone else's.

    Her eyes followed the creature as it vanished into the woods.

    The tear had caught her. That tiny, suspended gold drop where an eye should’ve been. She hadn’t looked away from it as it watched her, and when it turned back—when it left—her breath did something strange in her throat. Like it had waited to exhale until it knew it could leave her behind.

    She swallowed hard. Her hooves were rooted again, but not by fear this time. She just… didn’t know how to step forward without stepping into something more permanent.

    Mordecai’s voice brought her back. Gentle. Even. Honest in a way she hadn’t quite earned from him yet. Not again. Not fully.

    Her gaze lifted to him.

    Not his statue.

    Him.

    "You weren’t supposed to see all that," she said finally. Her voice wasn’t defensive—it was quiet. Unpolished. Like she was relearning how to speak. “It was a long time ago...”
     
    Mordecai watched her for a moment. He still stood, the weight of the staff in his hand grounding him. Cerberus stood beside him, silent, steady, eyes fixed on Ephraim with the same patient intensity Mordecai carried.

    When she spoke—when she said it had been a long time ago—something shifted behind his expression. Not a change in posture, not a dramatic flare, but a flicker of something more subtle: exhaustion, yes, but also the beginning threads of frustration. Of something heavier.

    "Ephraim—" he began, voice low but edged, the start of something sharper. But he caught himself. His eyes closed. He drew a breath in, slow, deliberate. And when he opened them again, he was steadier.

    "It may have been a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean those things are forgotten."

    His tone wasn’t harsh. It was heavy.

    "It doesn’t mean you need to punish yourself," he said, gaze resting steady on hers. "But Unity Haven... that was where we started. That world shaped everything. The paths we walked before it all unraveled, those things are still with us. Whether we like it or not."

    He exhaled again, rougher this time. His eyes turned to the statue beside them—the Cerberus monument, its heads cast to memory, to future, to now. He let it anchor him for a moment.

    "It’s not chains," he murmured. "It’s shadows. And we witnessed."

    The dried blood marked his jaw and arm, crusted and dark against already matted fur. It added to the image—of wear, of weight, of a man who had not just survived the island but become part of it.

    Inside, his mind churned. Thoughts from too many lives. Voices pressed in—fractured, layered, heavy. He felt like he wasn’t just speaking for himself. Not only Mordecai.

    Unity Haven still echoed.Castiel still grieved.

    And all of them were watching.

    His eyes moved back to her.

    "You said—" The words caught again. His jaw tensed. He paused. Tried to shape the sentence without breaking it. Then came a small, tired sound—half laugh, half breath, pained.

    "Criminals."

    He shook his head slowly.

    "The way you kept saying it. The underground. Like that word did all the explaining."

    His voice tightened for a moment. Then loosened. He closed his eyes, inhaled again, and looked at her.

    "I was a criminal, Ephraim. I know what I did. I know what I chose. I did what I had to do to survive. I don’t need pity. I don’t need sympathy. I’ve made peace with the things I’ve done. I’ve grappled with my demons from Unity Haven. But I never buried them."

    His grip on the staff flexed.

    "I never carved them into something cleaner."

    A breath. A bitter exhale.

    "Unity Haven—that timeline. You said I didn’t choose that life. That if the coin had flipped, I would’ve been sitting where you were."

    He stopped. That part hurt.

    "That was a core part of my life. I’m not talking about the violence, or the explosions, or the gods. I’m talking about the beginning."

    He looked at her now, more directly.

    "I was one-hundred and seven years old. I used every dirty alchemical trick I could find to hold my age together. I was a criminal because I had to be. Castiel didn’t die in the Sunship. He survived it. Unity Haven—however broken it was—was where he learned to walk again. Where Mordecai rose. Where I learned to live."

    His eyes closed again. A long breath.

    Cerberus stood at his side, unmoving, but not cold. Their presence was one of solidarity.

    Then, softly—

    "Please be honest with me."

    He opened his eyes. They were red-rimmed, worn from too much weight.

    "Why were you at Poise’s mansion that night?"
     


    heartbeat-pulse.gif


    Ephraim didn’t flinch.

    She stood where she was, steady now, arms crossed—not out of defiance, but as if she were bracing against something cold. Something personal. She let the question sit between them for a beat. Long enough that silence could stretch into pressure.

    Then she exhaled. Not sharp. Not weak.

    Just tired.

    "You know," she said, eyes narrowing slightly, "you talk like that version of you was built out of necessity—but every time you bring it up, it sounds like pride."

    Her tone wasn’t cruel. But it was not soft either.

    "You say you’ve made peace with it. That you know what you did, what you survived. Fine. I believe you. I even respect it."

    She tilted her head, not quite smiling.

    "But I’m not the only one who polished a version of the past, Mordecai. I just happened to do it with gold leaf. You? You did it with ash and iron."

    She shifted her weight, boots scuffing the edge of the grass as her eyes cut toward Cerberus, then back to Mordecai.

    "Yeah. I called them criminals. And I meant it. At the time, that’s what they were to me. Dangerous. Unstable. Hostile to the very structure holding Unity Haven together, which was my home too at one time, might I remind you."

    Her voice was low now, but edged with heat.

    "But what—you think it was one-sided?"

    She stepped forward once. Just enough to close some of the distance. Her voice tightened—not angry, but pointed.

    "I’m sure you and yours had plenty to say about the stuck-up goat council member. The traitor in glass heels who signed death warrants and called it diplomacy. The untouchable who never once walked the underground because it didn’t match her perfume."

    A pause. Just long enough to sting.

    "And you’d be right, wouldn’t you?"

    She didn’t wait for an answer.

    "That’s what I’m trying to tell you. We were both playing roles carved by circumstance. You survived by becoming untouchable. I survived by pretending I already was."

    Another breath. Her brow furrowed, jaw tightening slightly.

    "And you want this to be more than that. You want it to mean something bigger. You want the blood to tell a better story. Because then it hurts less. Then it has shape."

    She looked at him then, more open than before, more raw.

    "But I don’t get the luxury of shaping mine that way. You want to know why I was at Poise’s mansion?"

    She gave a tight shrug. Looked past him. Then back.

    "I don’t think you want that answer. I think you want to keep thinking I’m worse than you. Because it would be easier than accepting we were both wrong—and both right."

    Her voice dropped then. Not dramatically. Just low enough to land.

    "It was a war, Mordecai. And we both got used to winning it however we could."
     

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    1748060077980.pngMordecai didn’t move. He stood where he was, shoulders firm, staff in hand. Cerberus remained beside him, all three heads fixed on Ephraim as she spoke, the growl in Cer’s throat rising low and steady as she stepped closer.

    But Mordecai lifted a hand—just slightly—and Cerberus quieted. Not fully. Not with submission. Just enough to wait.

    He let her finish.

    Then silence.

    He stared at her for a long beat, the moonlight catching in his eye, the tired one. The only one that still saw clearly.

    “You didn’t even hear anything I said,” he murmured.

    His voice was low. Tired. Not from the day. From the weight.

    “That wasn’t the point.”

    He looked off slightly, jaw tightening.

    “You’re turning it into something else. You think I want to think you’re worse than me?”

    He looked back at her now—sharper, voice beginning to rise—not with anger, but with disbelief.

    “Gods, Ephraim. This isn’t some reckoning ledger. I’m not tallying sins. I don’t think that about you. I have never thought that.”

    The word hit hard. Never.

    “I’ve always been honest with you. Since the beginning. I’ve never lied to you.”

    His grip on the staff twitched.

    “I’m not looking for a villain to cast. I’ve bled beside you. I’ve died beside you. We've seen worlds collapse and start again, and we're still here together, and you think this—this is what I’m trying to do?”

    His voice cracked slightly—not in weakness, but in strain.

    “Even now, you won’t be honest.”

    His jaw clenched. “You let me get hit. You let Cer take the fall. You let all of that play out, and only when the pain bled out of the stone did you finally speak. You say it’s over—but you’re still hiding.”

    His eyes darkened.

    “I asked you something. And you gave me everything but the truth.”

    He shook his head, a low growl under his breath. Then he winced—his hand shot up to his temple, gripping hard. The cane trembled in his grasp.

    Cerberus stirred, all three heads snapping toward him, growling low.

    The air thickened. The ground pulsed.

    Then it shifted.

    Cerberus’s form flickered. Not into three wolves. Not into shadow. But into something wilder.1748060121307.png

    Dark energy flared, spiraling shadows wrapping around their form. A pulse—like a hissed explosion—and three spectral skulls emerged from the swirl. Wolf heads, skeletal and snarling, with ghostly trails behind them, glowing violet in their hollow eyes. They circled Mordecai’s chest.

    Then lunged.

    They struck him—not violently, but like memory returning in full. A haunting pull, sharp and total. He gasped, staggered, his back arching hard as if the past itself had punctured straight through his soul. His knees bent under the pressure. His fingers gripped the staff like a lifeline, knuckles white, breath caught somewhere between fury and collapse.

    Then—change.

    His goat tail twisted at the root, spasming once before it contorted, growing and splitting. The base swelled, and from it emerged not one, but three long, thick wolf-like tails—wild, feral, and bristling with kinetic intent. They swayed behind him, not decoratively, but like living extensions of thought and mood, flicking with awareness.

    His ears shifted next—no longer soft-edged or low-set like a goat’s. They rose, sliding upward along the side of his skull as cartilage snapped and reshaped. They became sharply triangular, perked and forward-facing, twitching like a predator locking onto prey.

    His spine cracked as it straightened, shoulders rolling back with a fluid, unsettling grace. What once bore weariness now carried tension—poised, honed. Something fully awake.

    A new stillness followed. But it was not peace.

    It was precision.

    He rose.

    Taller. Sharper. Silent.

    His eyes locked on her. One blind. One burning.

    His jaw was tighter now. His breath controlled.

    When he spoke again, his voice was cold and patient in a way that wasn’t kind. It was clean. Distilled.

    “Since you want to measure the worth of blood and names,” he said, voice low and cold, “then let’s not waste breath pretending this was ever about who survived prettier.”

    The wolf tails flicked once. The ground beneath him stilled.

    He didn’t blink.

    Unity Haven had arrived.
     


    Her hooves dug hard into the earth. She didn’t even realize she’d moved forward until her body snapped upright—breath quick in her chest, shoulders squared as if his transformation had struck something primal in her, not just fear—fury.

    “How would you know what I heard?” she spat.

    Her voice cracked against the air like glass on stone.

    “You don’t get to say that to me. You—who disappears for seven years and shows up full of riddles and wounds and wolves and ghosts—you want to talk to me about honesty?”

    Her braid lashed behind her like a banner in a storm. She stepped closer—not timidly, but like someone wading across a line they knew they couldn’t uncross.

    “You might not lie, Mordecai, but you sure as hell don’t tell me everything, do you? You repress it. You swallow it. You carry it like it makes you some tragic, noble beast—but that’s not honesty. That’s self-surgery.”

    Her voice shook—not weak, but stretched thin from being ignored.

    “I have been honest with you. Even the parts I hate. Even the parts you don’t want to hear.”

    She saw the form now. The shift. The change in him. How the goat in him had pulled inward, and the predator stepped forward.

    She blinked once.

    But she didn’t back down.

    “Maybe coming here was a mistake,” she hissed.

    The words slipped out like a wound ripped open mid-stitch. She didn’t mean to say them. Not like that. But they were real, and they were burning now.

    She stepped again. Hands flexing. Then—

    She shoved him.

    Right in the chest.

    Not hard. Not to hurt.

    Just to be heard.

    "You’ve been gone seven years, okay?! You want to drag me through your ghosts like I didn’t earn some scars of my own?” Her breath hitched. “I had to figure shit out. By myself. I didn’t have your abilities. I didn’t have your rituals. It was just me and the kids. And we made it work. I made it work.”

    She stared at him, trembling now, but not backing down.

    "You were busy—off in the wilds, collecting pieces of yourself like relics. Reflecting. Fine. Great. Good for you. But do you think I wouldn’t have taken seven years to put myself back together if I could have?”

    Her voice broke—not in volume, but in exhaustion.

    “Mercy won’t even look at me anymore. But I bet you could walk through Brasshollow and Wrath would throw himself at your feet like a penitent god. Because you’re the favorite. You’re the myth.”

    Her hands curled at her sides like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

    "You want to know why I was at Poise’s mansion?” she said, suddenly cold. Her shoulders straightened, the wall slamming back into place.

    “Fine.”

    She blinked. One. Hard. Breath.

    “But while we’re finally being honest, why don’t you answer this first—when we got to the Archipelago, how hard did you actually try to make it work?”

    Her eyes shimmered with heat—not tears. Rage.

    “Not for your sake. For mine. For the kids. For what we were supposed to be. For what we could’ve been.”

    Her voice broke there—but she kept going, low and brutal.

    “You want truth? Here's mine: Maybe we should’ve gone back to Unity Haven, for your sake."

    She drew a ragged breath, then added—quieter, but cut sharper:

    “You hate who you are now. That’s why you keep drowning in the past. You say it’s reflection, but it’s obsession. You want to suffer. You want to be haunted. Because then you get to pretend this—” her hand gestured between them, their monuments, the meadow, the magic, the statues “—matters more than the people standing in front of you.”

    A pause.

    Then, bitter and flat:

    “I don’t hate myself, Mordecai. I like who I became. I don't have to wear my trauma. I’m a better person now.”

    And finally—softer than the rest, but twice as dangerous:

    “And maybe that’s what really pisses you off.”
     

    1748065879841.pngMordecai didn’t move.

    He stood there with his spine like iron and his fingers curled just tight enough around the staff to keep the howl in his throat from surfacing. His eyes stayed locked on her—one dead, one burning—and for a moment, all the wind seemed to flee the Witherwilds.

    And then he spoke.

    Not a shout. Not a plea.

    Just the kind of voice that only comes from a person whose ribcage had become a reliquary.

    "You think I disappeared."

    A beat.

    "I didn’t disappear, Ephraim. I was taken. Ripped out of time, pulled into a void I couldn’t see the edge of. I didn’t know if I was in the same chronosphere. I didn’t know if you were alive. Do you understand what that means?"

    He took a step forward.

    "You think I chose that island? You think I wanted seven years of silence, of screaming into trees that never answered? I didn’t even know it had been seven years until the veil lifted. Time didn’t pass there like it does here. I was trapped in the jaws of a beast that made me relive everything. And still, the second I saw the sky break open, I came back. Straight to you. No stop. No breath. No safety. I walked back into your world with my ribs still cracked open—starved, limping, half-blind, with wounds that hadn’t even had the decency to scar."

    He lifted a hand—no longer cloven-hoofed, now shaped by the beast he'd absorbed. Long-fingered, calloused, bandaged in places where the skin had worn thin. His coat clung to his frame, loose from weight lost that he hadn’t realized until the wind moved through it. His left eye, still blinded and veined with purple, didn’t follow her, but it burned with memory.

    "You think I arrived whole, Ephraim? I arrived bleeding. Still bleeding."

    The three wolf tails behind him bristled low, twitching with restrained tension. Mordecai lifted a hand again—not to cast, not to ward off—but simply to press against his own chest. To remind himself that he was still here. That even now, with the voices rising within, he remained the anchor. The vessel. The one still choosing to stand.

    He exhaled slowly.

    "And you say I hide. That I carry this pain like a badge? No, Ephraim. I wear it because I never had the privilege of setting it down. You think I didn’t cry? You think I didn’t beg to be seen? You were there. At the tidepool. You held me while I broke like a child. Tell me now that you didn’t see it. Look me in the eye and say I didn’t show you everything."

    His voice stayed level on that last word, carved from steel rather than sorrow, and he pressed forward anyway.

    "You say I want to be haunted. No. I want to matter. I want what I endured to mean something because the alternative is that I suffered for nothing. That the scars were just... leftovers."

    Another breath. This one harsher.

    "You say I didn’t try when we got to the Archipelago? Ephraim, you had a job in Brasshollow. You were assigned. I stayed behind with the children. I held our home together while the threads of reality rewrote themselves around us. You want to call that giving up? I didn’t walk out. I didn’t vanish. I was watching the house while you chased orders."

    The fire behind his voice cooled slightly, but it didn’t go out.

    "And now you say Wrath would fall at my feet while Mercy won’t look at you? Gods. You think I even knew what happened to them? Do you know what it's like to wake up after years and realize everyone moved on without you? I didn’t know what the Bibblecores became. I didn’t even know people had magic again. The last time I saw Wrath, he was torn from me during the crash. And Mercy..."

    He paused. His jaw tensed.

    "If she left you, that breaks something in me I don’t know how to fix. But don’t make it a contest of divinity. I never wanted to be anyone’s favorite. I just wanted to come home."

    His staff trembled slightly as he lowered it to the ground.

    "You say this was a mistake. That this reflection wasn’t worth it. Then what were your words worth at the shoreline? What was that hand you offered me? You asked to come here. I warned you what it was. I told you it wouldn’t be gentle. And now that it’s cut you open, you want to throw the wound at me like it’s mine?"

    The three wolf tails behind him flicked—not wild, but precise. Controlled fury.

    "I came back a shattered thing. I told you I was still breaking. And you said you understood. You said you'd meet me wherever I was. You looked me in the eye and said you weren’t going anywhere."

    He stepped once more, now close enough that the shadows of their monuments spilled across both of them.

    "But now that it hurts... now that it’s messy and unholy and real, suddenly I’m the monster for bleeding too loud? For surviving in pieces instead of polish?"

    His voice dropped then, low and bitter.

    "You want to say you don’t hate yourself? That you like who you became? Good. I mean that. I’m glad. But don’t you dare throw that back at me like it’s some failing that I haven’t found peace yet. That I still grieve. That I still ache."

    The Witherwilds were silent.

    And in that hush, Mordecai looked at her. Not through her. At her.

    "I have always seen you, Ephraim. Even in the worst of it. Even when you broke down at the inn. Even when you and Mercy almost struck Morrath—which me and Wrath would rather have welcomed than let Umbrafane fall, the city we built together, the one we were trying to protect. I never flinched. I never ran. I let you break. I stood by you when you hated yourself and called it duty. And now you want to say I made a mistake for bringing you here?"

    His breath shuddered.

    He took a step closer now, until only truth lived in the distance between them.

    "And if you’ve forgotten what I said in the end—before we ever began again, before the Empyreon took us... then let me remind you."

    His voice was iron.

    "Ephraim, even if we go into this new world, even if our memories are erased and we start again, I will always try to find you. I do not know what I will be in that life, nor who I will become. But I know that no matter where I am, no matter who I am, I will always be drawn to you. I will always want to be by your side."

    He stood tall. The wind stirred the petals in the distance.

    "I meant every word. And I still do. But maybe that doesn’t matter to you.

    Because if everything I’ve said still makes me the villain in your story—then maybe you’ve already made up your mind."

    Behind him, where the willow tree wept against the night wind, the Cerberus statue loomed.

    And from the leftmost head—Cer, the one always first to growl, to shield, to strike for him—a crack now ran from brow to snout.

    Thin. Jagged.
     


    “But you,” Poise interrupted, tapping a finger against the pendant, “are not as broken as him.... There it is. The thing you came here for. The thing that drives you.” Mordecai.

    “Oh, darling.” He exhaled in mock exasperation, finally turning back toward her, eyes gleaming with something too delighted. “Of course. I saw it the moment he walked into my ballroom.” His smile curved wider, sharper. Hungrier. “But he was mine the moment he stepped onto my stage.”

    Ephraim’s stomach twisted. “He’s not yours.”

    Poise laughed. “Isn’t he?” Her breath caught in her throat.

    “You saw it too, didn’t you?” His voice was silk, slithering between them like a performer’s whisper behind the curtain. He stepped closer, deliberate, the space between them dwindling. “That rhythm in him. That precision. That control.” His gloved hand reached out, fingers ghosting just over her shoulder, never quite touching. “Perfect,” he murmured. “Perfect in a way that cannot be taught.” His voice dropped lower, almost reverent. “He does not fumble. He does not hesitate. He does not bow.”

    His eyes flicked to hers, gleaming with certainty. “He belongs on this stage.”

    Ephraim refused to let her expression crack. “You only want him because you can’t have him.”

    Poise smiled. “Is that so?” She could feel the tension between them. The air, thick with something unspoken.

    She took a step forward, refusing to let him tower over her. “He’s not some performer for you to shape. He’s not a mask to be worn. He’s his own person.”

    ....

    But that isn't what happened... was it?

    “He’s not a performer for you to shape.”

    That’s what I said—right? That’s… what I told myself I said.

    But—
    Wait.

    What did I say?

    That tone in his voice, the way he circled me. That wasn’t domination. That was performance. He was performing for me.....


    “...That’s not what I said, is it.”

    No—wait. No. I wanted it to be. I wanted that version. The version where I stood tall. Poise wasn’t towering over me. He was waiting. That’s all. He knew I’d come. Because I always did. Why did I go? I wasn’t afraid of him... I wanted Mordecai on that stage. I wanted Mordecai on that stage. I did. Not for his sake. Not to save him. To show him. To make him see what I saw.

    ...

    Poise reclined with the elegance of someone who had never once felt hurried. Draped in soft violet silks and silver-trimmed gloves, he looked less like a council member and more like an actor taking his break between acts. One leg draped over the arm of his chair, and in his fingers twirled a stylus he hadn’t used in twenty minutes.

    “You’ve barely touched the layout for Room Two,” he murmured, tone light and needling. “I was beginning to worry you’d gone all soft on us. Usually when you’re quiet, it means you’ve drafted something cruel.”

    Ephraim ignored the barb. She didn’t sit. Her coat was still damp from the storm, and she left it on, shoulders squared, arms folded over the thick folder she'd brought in with her.

    "...I want control of this room,” she said.

    Poise’s eyes flicked up at her. Something in the way she said it—not a request, but a claim—made him actually pause. “Oh?”

    Her only answer was to set the folder down between them. No title. No stamps of council approval. Just heavy parchment thick with ink and intent.

    “...It needs to be serene....” she said, opening the folder herself. “Beautiful... Like stillness carved into reality.... I want the room to be wet.... Lush.... Framed by greenery.... Let them walk through something that feels sacred....That way, when the killing starts, they’ll feel like it’s desecration....”

    Poise smiled. Slowly. He leaned forward, drawing the plans toward himself.

    “And the platforms?”

    “White...” she said immediately. “Sterile.... False... Like surgical tiles dropped into a garden... Let them stand out... Let them feel like trespassers.”

    He hummed under his breath. “So… illusion of balance. A place that pretends to be fair, while hiding the blade.”

    She nodded. “...The Goat stands on the highest platform....Alone....Surrounded by water.... Elevated above the others, but not safe. Not ever safe.”

    “And the Sheep?”

    “...Two per trial,” she said. “...Selected at random.... Standing lower, on smaller tiles.... Still visible. Still reachable. But beneath them. And they must know it.”

    Poise turned the page and tapped one of the design glyphs, adjusting the angle of the light. “Let me guess. If the Goat doesn’t choose—”

    “...They both fall.”

    He exhaled. “Ah. Gravity as judgment. Mercy as failure.”

    “No... ” Ephraim said, her voice sharpening. “Not mercy.... Indecision. If they hesitate, they should lose everything.”

    ....

    “But you,” Poise interrupted, tapping a finger against the pendant, “are nothing like him.... Lady Huhanna. Kin like him.. that is the thing that drives you. Of course. I saw it the moment he walked into my ballroom.” His smile curved wider, “He was yours the moment he stepped onto my stage.”

    "Goatkin or not, he's.... despicable," she said her voice low

    Poise laughed. “Isn’t he?” Her breath caught in her throat.

    “You saw it too, didn’t you?” His voice was silk, slithering between them like a performer’s whisper behind the curtain. He stepped closer, deliberate, the space between them dwindling. “That darkness in him.” His gloved hand reached out, fingers ghosting just over her shoulder, never quite touching. “Disgusting vermin,” he murmured. “Disgusting in a way that cannot be taught.” His voice dropped lower, almost reverent. “He does not bow. He does not beg. He will not breathe."

    His eyes flicked to hers, gleaming with certainty. “This will be his tomb, Lady Huhanna.”
    Her hand moved instinctively to her neck, where the ghost of an old weight seemed to linger. Though the necklace was long gone, the habit of reaching for it remained—a small, unspoken reminder of its grip on her. “When I sat on the council,” she continued, her voice quieter now, “I wore an artifact. It was… powerful. Gave me clarity, focus—abilities the council needed. But it wasn’t just that.” She glanced at Mordecai, her expression unreadable for a moment before softening. “It made me feel. Constantly. Deeply. Every decision, every death, every failure—it weighed so much heavier because of it.”

    Her voice faltered for a moment, but she pressed on, her tone steadying. “When the Grasp of Eternity was opened and the artifact was destroyed, I thought I’d be relieved. I thought I’d finally be free of the heaviness it brought. But…” She trailed off, her hand falling back to her side as her gaze flicked toward the floor.

    “It didn’t change anything. Not really. My people—our people—were still gone. The choices I made on that council, the things I could’ve done differently, the ones I couldn’t save… all of it’s still here,” she said, tapping her temple lightly. “The weight wasn’t just in the necklace. It’s in me. And maybe it always was.”
    He moved like he knew her—like he'd trained for this moment across a thousand dreams. Goatkin, like her. Bigger. Older. Scarred across the brow and burning behind the eyes.

    “You don’t even know what you are,” he hissed, circling. “How many versions of you do I have to kill before it sticks?”

    She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her ribs burned from where he’d kicked her, her side was seeping warmth, and the knife had already grazed her thigh once—too close.

    He lunged again.

    Steel glinted.

    She ducked, twisted, grabbed for a root—slipped. His weight crashed down. The knife sliced across her coat, catching flesh beneath.

    “Faker,” he snarled in her ear. “Coward. Royal dog.”

    She kicked hard, connected with shinbone, but he didn’t stop. Hands wrapped in leather slammed her down again, his breath hot with rage and rot.

    “I remember you,” he whispered, pressing the knife toward her throat. “You did this to me."

    “No—no—!” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t—

    “You didn’t care.”

    The blade kissed her neck. Cold. Intent.

    “I—please—stop—” Her voice shrilled as she writhed beneath him, boots digging for purchase in the muck. Her hands flailed, scraped through mud, reeds, rot—

    Fingers closed around something. Damp. Granular.

    Sand.

    She didn’t think.

    She threw.



    The stars were different here.

    Not scattered like constellations across a night sky, but clustered—spiraling—like they remembered something. A lattice of shimmering threads arched overhead, each glowing with the faint pulse of chronolight, the heartbeat of a dead or dying world.

    And beyond it—beyond the lattice, beyond the mantle—there was only dark.

    And descent.

    They stood at the very edge of Chronospace, where time wore thin and the curvature of memory began to unravel. The gateway to the Beyond loomed ahead: not a door, not a rift, but a silence so complete it seemed to drink starlight whole.

    Ephraim shifted her weight, her arms folded tightly over her chest. Her coat snapped faintly in the low gravity. She didn’t shiver. The air didn’t have temperature here.

    Beside her, the goat watched the void with quiet patience.

    He was taller than her by a good few inches, his frame lean. His fur was tawny, touched with silver at the muzzle and edges of his beard, and the straw hat atop his head tilted with a gentle absurdity—as if he’d never taken it off, no matter what timeline came.

    Ephraim glanced at him sideways. “You always look like you’re waiting for a joke to end.”

    The goat smiled faintly, his hands tucked under the fold of his sleeves. “It usually does. Eventually.”

    They both looked out again, toward the black bloom of the Nether.

    He exhaled, slow. “You really believe it’s worth it, don’t you?”

    She didn’t answer right away.

    When she spoke, her voice was calm. Level. But it carried something heavier beneath.

    “Yes.”

    “Even if you forget everything?”

    “It doesn’t mean nothing happened.”

    He hummed. “But it does mean you won’t know it did.”

    “That’s the cost.”

    The goat shifted, his hat catching the faint shimmer of timeline debris above. “They say once you’re marked for restart, the Chronosystem starts keeping count. Seven lives, ten full reboots, and then... the code breaks. You exit the grid. Fall through into the Nether.”

    “I know.” Her voice didn’t waver.

    “Do you think it’s true? The Nether. That it’s something else entirely? You’re not scared?”

    “I’m exhausted,” Ephraim said, a sharp breath hissing through her teeth. “I’m tired of holding everything together just long enough to break it again. So maybe forgetting is good. Maybe the next me won’t clutch so hard.”

    The goat tilted his head, watching her with a gentleness that could’ve been mistaken for detachment. But it wasn’t. He was just that kind of still, "Your counter will reset... you'll have to start it over again; and there's no telling what that space will have."

    "Ephraim, even if we go into this new world, even if our memories are erased and we start again, I will always try to find you. I do not know what I will be in that life, nor who I will become. But I know that no matter where I am, no matter who I am, I will always be drawn to you. I will always want to be by your side."

    "If these are our last moments as we are, then… there's something I need to tell you."

    Mordecai's gaze softened and a flick to his ears. "I'm listening." He said gently.

    The moment hovered, brittle as spun glass.

    Ephraim could feel the weight of it pressing against her chest—not crushing, not yet, but enough to make her breath come shallow. The stars above were already beginning to fade, swallowed by the slow unraveling of the chronomantle. She knew they only had minutes, maybe less, before they would be swept into the Beyond and reset.

    This was it. The end of one self. The beginning of another.

    She wanted to tell him.

    The truth.

    That she had come from a different chronospace entirely. That this life—the one where their paths had twisted so tightly together—was not her first. That long before Unity Haven, before the Dance, before the Grasp of Eternity had ever burned its mark into their bones, she had lived other lives in other galaxies, other mantles. That she had chosen to cross the threshold. To be torn apart and rewritten. Because somewhere in that collapsing tangle of light and silence, she had seen him.

    And she had known.

    Not by name. Not by face.

    By gravity.

    But the words lodged.

    Not because she didn’t trust him. She did. Gods, she did.

    But because saying it now—when they were on the brink of forgetting—felt like cruelty. Like whispering a secret to a dying flame and expecting the ashes to remember it.

    And so instead, she told him what could survive the fall.

    Her fingers curled around his hand, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet but unshaken.

    “Mordecai,” she began, then hesitated—just for a breath—just long enough for the name to feel too small.

    Her eyes softened. Her grip steadied.

    “No—Castiel.”

    She felt it immediately.

    The stillness in him. The way he froze, not from fear but from the sound of a name no one called him anymore. A name with weight. With origin. With pain.

    She held fast.

    “I love you,” she said.

    Simple. Final. Something that could find its way back, even if nothing else did.


    Ephraim cracked.

    It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t beautiful like pain sometimes pretends to be.

    It was violent.

    Her breath hitched so sharp it sounded like something inside her tore. Her arms spasmed upward—first like she meant to shield herself, then like she didn’t know what she was fighting. Her hands flew to her head, clutching her skull like she could squeeze the pressure out. Her braid slapped her shoulder as she staggered back, boots dragging through the wildflowers, tearing petals loose in her wake.

    “I know!” she shrieked, and it came out wrong—twisted, ragged, like her voice didn’t fit in her throat anymore. “I KNOW, okay?! You keep saying all these things like I don’t already know!”

    Her breath wheezed. Her lungs refused to fill.

    “You think I don’t wake up hearing that name? Castiel—fuck, Mordecai, you think I don’t remember?"

    She spun—half collapse, half flail—and slammed a fist into the stone base of the chair behind her. The moss scraped her knuckles. She hit it again. And again. Harder. Wild.

    “You want to talk about what I threw?! I threw away everything! I gave up EVERYTHING TO HAVE THIS!"

    Her shoulders jolted. Her whole body jittered now, vibrating with too many feelings to choose from.

    “Gods—gods, I can’t breathe,” she gasped, clutching at her own chest. “You don’t get to—you don’t get to stand there all righteous!"

    She whirled again, sobbing and snarling all at once, kicking out wildly—one hoof colliding with a cluster of lotus blossoms, scattering them like broken teeth.

    “You don’t know what Poise said to me! What I let happen!” Her nails dug into her scalp. “You think you saw everything?! You didn’t see the worst parts! You didn’t see what I did!"

    Her voice cracked on that last word, warping into a scream she tried to swallow.

    Then she dropped to her knees.

    Like gravity just yanked her down.

    “Why couldn’t you have stayed gone?!” she sobbed, clutching the earth with both hands. “Why did you come back?! I was doing fine—I was—I had—I had a system—”

    Her hands slapped at the dirt, trying to grind the panic into something she could hold, something real.

    “I don’t know who I am anymore,” she whimpered, “You showed up and I—I loved you, I love you, I do, but everything hurts again, and I’m so tired of hurting—”

    Then she pitched forward.

    Wracked with a sob so deep it ripped through her like a tidal wave tearing up foundation. She buried her face in her arm, her whole body heaving. The sound that came out of her wasn’t a cry.

    It was a wail.

    A raw, ugly, feral sound.

    She screamed into the moss like it might open and swallow her whole.
     

    Mordecai stood still as Ephraim cracked, breaking in front of him. His posture stiff, jaw tight, arms so tense they felt on the verge of snapping. He didn't move, not immediately. Inside, his mind fractured again—Castiel screaming, Ramura reaching for stillness, Unity drowning in fury. And Mordecai, somewhere in the center, trying to hold it all together.

    Around Ephraim, the lotus flowers she'd scattered with her hoof did not wither. They remained. And then—more bloomed. Larger, fuller, a few glowing faintly like gentle breath. The magnolia tree behind the chair shed a few blossoms, not in mourning but in quiet grace.

    The chair, stone and unmoving, took her fists. It did not retaliate. Moss clung tighter to the arms. Vines twisted like quiet arms. More lotus bloomed at its base. The island did not punish. It witnessed.

    Mordecai didn’t speak. A twitch flicked through his eye. His jaw locked. The wolves inside him stirred.

    Then came the words:

    "Why couldn't you have stayed gone?"

    They struck like a bell through bone.

    His breath stopped.

    The wind answered.

    It rushed across the field like a gasp pulled from the soul of the island, carrying Ephraim’s voice: "Why couldn’t you have stayed gone? Why did you come back? I was doing fine—"

    The Cerberus statue cracked.

    First, just Cer’s fractured head. Then the crack split up through Ber, then Rus. For a heartbeat, golden light filled the splits—kintsugi, hope, the bond of past and present. But then it faded. Not shattered. Just no longer held.

    Mordecai let out a sound—not a sob, not rage, but something primal and strangled. His hand clutched his head. Purple veins surged up from his spine, the third chakra glowing too bright. His left eye—blinded and scarred—flared with purple cracks. He gasped, stumbled, dropped to his knees.

    He vomited.

    A thick, tar-like liquid spilled from his mouth, sick with curse. The staff slipped from his hand. He tried to hold on. He couldn’t. His body spasmed once more and dropped, limp, twitching. Still.

    Behind him, the willow tree groaned. Its trunk shuddered. Branches withered downward. And then—the great tree fell. Uprooted. Torn from the ground, roots exposed to the sky. A hole remained, black and yawning.

    Mordecai's form flickered.

    Shadows burst from him like steam from a cracked vessel. Cerberus divided. Cer, Ber, and Rus emerged in spectral form, skeleton heads flickering with energy before merging into their individual base forms. Mordecai’s body returned to its base form—goat-eared, tailless, motionless.

    The wolves howled.

    Rus whimpered and circled him. Ber sniffed and barked sharply. Cer stood frozen.



    Then the scream.

    Far in the mountains, from a dark hole in the stone: a cry. It was all frequencies at once—low, guttural, piercing, and sharp. A banshee wail strangled in a beast’s throat.

    “ŇŇŇŞŞĦĦĦŘŘŘҜ-ҜҜŘΔΔΔỮỮǤĦҜĦҜĦҜĦҜ—ŇŇŇŇΔΔŴŴŴŴŴŘŘŘŁŁĆĦ.”

    All three wolves looked up.

    From that hole, a purple aurora launched into the sky—a crackling arrow of curse and hatred. It arced high, then fell like judgment. Cracks followed it, racing across the ground in black and violet webs, hissing with smoke. It streaked for Mordecai.



    Cer moved.1748121025478.png

    He didn’t hesitate.

    He sprinted forward, massive paws thundering against the dirt. Ber and Rus stayed with Mordecai. Cer ran headlong into the oncoming curse.

    It struck him dead-on.

    The energy latched around him, a net of burning light and poison.

    The curse struck him full-force—purple lightning seizing his frame like a thousand barbed wires pulled taut. Cer reared back on his hind legs, skeletal jaws gaping wide as the sound tore loose from his body:

    "RHRRHH-YAAARWWWRRRK—GNNNNNHHK-KRRAAAUUNGH!!"

    It wasn’t just a howl. It was a scream carved out of bone and loyalty. A sound too big for a single wolf to carry. It cracked through the air like a snapped spine—half-yelp, half-roar, all agony.

    "NNNNRRRAFFFHHH-HHRRYYYEELLP!"

    His paws clawed at the ground mid-air as the energy tried to thread itself through him, searching for Mordecai. But Cer didn’t move aside. He took it. He bore it.

    "KHHHHHRRHHHAAAHNNN!!"

    The last cry ripped from his ribs, echoing hollow through the sockets of his skull. No breath, no breath, just raw sound. Like a forest being split in two. Like a god choking on its own name.

    Then he hit the ground—hard. Twitching. His flanks heaving, purple veins lighting through his fur like cracks in stone. And still, the air echoed with that final wail—distant now, but unforgettable.

    The curse recoiled.

    The purple energy pulled back, slithering into the dirt, but the cracks remained—smoking, glowing, cursed.

    Cer dropped.

    1748121003610.pngHis body hit the ground with a thud. He was breathing, but it was wrong—labored, shallow. His limbs twitched. The fracture in his skull glowed faintly, cursed. The veins on his body now mirrored Mordecai’s: dark, corrupted.

    Ber and Rus ran to him. Rus nosed his ribs. Ber pressed against his side. Rus whined so loudly it echoed. Ber let out a slow, mournful sound—not quite a howl.

    And behind them, the Cerberus statue stood.

    Cracked.

    Glowing gold for one last breath.

    Then fading to silence.

    The willow tree lay broken.

    The golden light gone.

    Balance, for now, undone.
     
    “Chrono Orientation for Younglings, Vol. 1”
  • Index


    • The amphitheater smelled like ironed parchment and warm ozone.

    High above, half-suspended in glimmering stasis, bronze sigils rotated slowly between carved marble columns. Veins of luminous aetherstone ran through the pillars, pulsing like blood through a titan’s skeleton. Echoes of ancient speech—languages layered like sediment—hummed softly beneath the floor, as if the foundations themselves were whispering riddles.

    A single dragonkin intern sat in the lowest row.

    Young. Scale-horns barely hardened. Tail tucked awkwardly around one leg. A little too wide-eyed to pass as anything but a first-cycle trainee. The orientation badge affixed to their sash still glowed "WHELP – OBSERVATION TRACK," the letters slightly crooked.

    They had been guided—if you could call being wordlessly herded by a four-eyed elk-beast "guided"—to this place before dawn. Now they waited.

    And waited.

    Until the sigils aligned.

    The central archway—tall, colonnaded, carved with twelve mythic beasts in ascending spiral—shivered. Then flared.

    And the air shimmered.

    With the sound of a parchment being unsnapped, a screen manifested above the amphitheater floor. Thin lines of auric light traced its borders as the surface flickered from blank to color.

    A voice cleared her throat.

    Rich. Southern drawl. Gravel and honey.

    Then came the unmistakable tones of Grand Marquessa Mandrathine–the Elder Thornclaw, Oathflame of the Second Choir, and one-time Chronomantle Systems Liaison to the Nether Processing Department—but her interns just called her...

    “Margo.”
    [VISUAL: A stately dragonkin woman appears, shoulder-plated and draped in midnight-and-gold robes. Her scales are dark mahogany, dusted with rose-gold shimmer. Her horns sweep back like crescent scimitars, polished and inlaid with laurels. She adjusts her pince-nez spectacles. Behind her stands a chalkboard, an astrolabe, and a ten-foot jar labeled “VOID GUMMIES – DO NOT EAT.”]
    “Chrono Orientation for Younglings, Vol. 1”
    ✦ SEGMENT 1: CHRONO-SYSTEM BASICS ✦

    1748129484521.pngMARGO (warmly):
    "Well hi there, sweetkins. I’m Marquessa Mandrathine, but you may call me Margo. If you’re hearing this, congratulations—you didn’t hatch a dud and somebody up-chain thinks you’re ready to peek behind the world-curtain. That’s no small matter.”

    She smiles tightly. A gong rings faintly in the background.
    “Welcome to Chrono Orientation. This isn’t your pappy’s myth-cycle or some adolescent dreamwalk. You’re in a working Chronosphere, sugar. That means time's got plumbing, fate’s got clerks, and yes—we have rules. Which you will not break. Not unless you like getting reassigned to janitorial duty on a soul-shredder loop.”

    A moment. Then, conspiratorially:
    “Let’s start with the basics, shall we?”

    [VISUAL: A three-tiered diagram appears behind Margo—three luminous rings nested like pearls in a shell.]

    MARGO: “First thing’s first. You’re in the Chrono-System, darlin’. It’s a big’n. Think of it like a stack of worldy-wobbly time bubbles, each one designed and managed by folks we call Chronogods. Your job? You observe and report on the kin who live in those bubbles—because some of ‘em? Well. They’re special.”

    The diagram zooms into the innermost circle.
    “Each bubble’s a Chronosphere. That’s a single world. Might be high-fantasy goat feuds. Might be sandstorms and shrimp cults. We don’t judge.”

    The diagram expands outward to the second circle.
    “Clusters of Chronospheres make a Chronomantle. Usually overseen by a Chronogod or a pair—sometimes more if management’s gotten nervous.”

    Outer ring pulses softly.
    “And the whole shebang? That’s a Chronospace. A big ol’ barrel of mantles. Every Chronospace is its own sandbox. Different management. Different laws. Some of y’all’ll end up with transfers, so keep a passport.”

    Her tone shifts—wry, knowing.
    “But then there’s the outside. The not-here. That’s what we call... the Nether.”

    The word glows faintly in violet and vanishes.
    “We’ll get to that. One trauma at a time.”

    MARGO (with a little sigh):
    “Chronogods are the architects, hon. They design the systems—everything from magical theory to how the plumbing works. They don’t pick who lives, dies, or restarts. That’s our job. Dragonkin.”

    She leans forward, taps a claw on the screen.
    “We don’t make worlds. We make decisions. We’re the ones who decide who’s got a shot at reaching the Nether—and who doesn’t. Our support teams are split into two wings: Advocates and Anti-Advocates.”

    The two logos appear behind her: a sun-and-scroll sigil (Advocate) and a dark flame chained in a circle (Anti-Advocate).
    “Advocates work closer with the Chronogods, advising how to tune a world. Anti-Advocates answer directly to the Nether. They’re the brakes. And sometimes the axe.”

    She smiles sweetly.
    “Now you know why office potlucks are murder.”

    At this point, Margo gestures toward the chalkboard behind her, which begins auto-writing itself with glowing chalk:

    ✧ KEY TERMS REVIEW ✧
    • Chronosphere = Individual world (e.g., City of Unity, Ramura, Archipelago)
    • Chronomantle = Collection of chronospheres governed by Chronogods
    • Chronospace = Larger zone containing multiple mantles
    • Chronogod = World/system architect
    • Dragonkin = Monitors and evaluators of Restarters; maintain the path to the Nether
    • Nether = The “beyond”—only for the exceptional. Not theoretical. Not metaphor. A real, post-chrono destination.
    MARGO (smirking):
    “If you’re still with me, bless your scaly little heart. You’re ready for the good stuff.”

    She leans in. The tone drops lower.
    “We’re gonna talk about Restarters.”

    “Chrono Orientation for Younglings, Vol. 1”
    Segment Two: So You’ve Spotted a Restarter! Now What?

    The screen behind Margo shifts again—this time to a dark velvet background. Gold lettering unfurls slowly, accompanied by the soft chime of bells.

    [TITLE CARD: “THE RESTARTER INITIATIVE”]

    Margo folds her arms across her scaled chest and raises an amused brow. There’s something in her look now—an older kind of gravity, like she’s reciting an oath wrapped in storybook cloth.

    MARGO (with that velvet drawl):
    “Now, this is where things get juicy. You’ve heard the term before, I reckon. ‘Restarter.’ Whispers in the taverns. Myths in the cradle songs. ‘Some folk don’t die proper,’ they say. ‘Some kin don’t stay down.’”

    She paces slowly across the scene now, her heavy robes rustling with arcane static.
    “The truth’s a little more complicated—and a lot more dangerous.”

    ✦ WHAT IS A RESTARTER? ✦
    MARGO (pausing near a sketch of a goatkin):
    “A Restarter is a kin who’s been marked by the Dragonkin for reevaluation across time. We don’t advertise this. We don’t explain it to them. But once the mark is made, it’s permanent.”

    An image appears: a goatkin with glowing eyes standing in front of seven floating orbs—each a stylized chronosphere.
    “Restarters live through seven chronospheres. Sometimes they die before the end. Sometimes the world ends around them. Either way, they move on.”

    She tilts her head, her tone sharpening.
    “But don’t mistake this for reincarnation fluff. They’re not reborn. They’re reassigned. The slate’s not wiped clean—it’s pressed flat. And what seeps through the cracks?”
    She taps her temple.
    “Memory. Affliction. Power. Pain.”

    ✦ THE TRIAL STRUCTURE ✦
    The background shifts again, now showing a tower of numbered steps—each labeled with a chronosphere tier.

    ✹ CHRONOSPHERE 1: ORIGIN WORLD
    “Usually the kin’s natural world. High detail. Full memory. Raw personality. Often where the spark first lit.”

    ✹ CHRONOSPHERES 2–3: ENTRY TRIALS
    “LITE magic systems. Modified memory. Sometimes false memories or altered relationships.”

    “These test if the restarter will replicate their defining behavior—without knowing they’re supposed to.”

    MARGO (chuckling):
    “Most break here. They flounder. Cry. Adjust. Or they get real weird and form a cult. Happens more than you’d think.”

    ✹ CHRONOSPHERE 4: CHECKPOINT
    “Only restarters exist here. Memory from 1–3 restored.”

    “Designed to test synthesis. Can they integrate their paths? Accept what they’ve become?”

    ✹ CHRONOSPHERES 5–7: ASCENSION ARC
    “Full memory access. High magic systems.”

    “Real stakes. Real scrutiny. If you want to make it to the Nether, you'd best show you're the crème brûlée of the kin pie.”

    Margo lets that linger for a moment, her long tail coiling slightly at the tip.

    MARGO:
    “Seven trials. Seven worlds. Seven reckonings. And at the end? Maybe... just maybe... a gate opens. That’s when we step in.”

    ✦ MEMORY RULES & SUPPRESSION ✦
    A diagram appears: three kin silhouettes, each with a glowing flame inside their chest. The flame flickers or dims depending on their chronosphere.

    MARGO:
    “Memory ain’t binary, sugar. It’s not on or off. When suppressed, it still lingers—in dreams, in habits, in déjà vu.”

    “Sometimes the system resets kin. Sometimes it resets the world. Rarely, both. But fragments remain. And sometimes...”
    She leans in, voice dropping like gossip.
    “...a kin remembers too much too soon. Those ones get... unpredictable.”

    A pause. Her voice darkens.
    “Keep an eye on 'em. And log everything.”

    ✦ THE DRAGONKIN SUPPORT SYSTEM ✦
    Two new figures now appear behind Margo—one cloaked in silver feathers (Advocate), the other in a black cuirass (Anti-Advocate).

    MARGO:
    “Every restarter has a Dragonkin Support Team. At least one Advocate. One Anti-Advocate. It’s a split system—checks and balances. You’ll probably intern under one wing or the other.”

    “Advocates push for more chances. They believe in the kin, nudge the chronogods, help the system run smoother.”

    “Anti-Advocates play the devil’s score. They challenge. Audit. Intervene. They’re the ones who say: ‘Does this soul really belong in the Nether?’”

    She gestures to the intern watching.
    “You’re not picking sides. Yet. But you are watching. Everything. Because your notes might be the reason a kin sees paradise—or punishment.”

    ✦ ON FAILURE, THE DAMNED, AND THE NETHER ✦
    The background dims. The screen behind Margo now shows a ruined world: ash skies, screaming winds, cities sunk into endless chasms.

    MARGO (grim now):
    “Not every restarter makes it. Sometimes they stall. Fizzle out. Repeat loops without meaning.”

    The word “DAMNED” appears across the screen.
    “When we drop representation—when the Dragonkin walk away—that’s where they go. A chronospace of pain. The original one, some say. It powers the rest of the system. Their suffering keeps the lights on.”

    She turns, facing the screen as it shows glowing gates behind the ash.
    “But if they make it… if they endure? The Nether awaits. A physical plane. Not myth. A place of rare laws and real peace. We don’t talk about it much.”
    She smiles softly.
    “But it’s why we do what we do.”

    MARGO (straightening):
    “That’s enough for segment two. Take a break. Hydrate. Don’t lick the projection runes—yes, even if they smell like cinnamon.”

    Her voice softens again.
    “You’re gonna see things. Beautiful things. Terrible things. But remember this, little Whelp: our job isn’t to change them.”

    She taps her own heart.
    “It’s to understand why they matter.”

    “See you in segment three.”
    “Chrono Orientation for Younglings, Vol. 1”
    Segment Three: Gods, Monsters, and What the Hell Happened to That Forest

    The scene has changed again.

    Now the video is playing against the backdrop of an ancient marble coliseum—half-standing, half-dissolved into tangled vines and quartzlike fungus. Scorch marks line the outer walls. Black sludge oozes slowly down one staircase, as if time forgot how to drain itself properly.

    A low whir of crystal gears marks the start of the next segment.

    [TITLE CARD: “Chronogods, Mythics, and Environmental Corruption”]

    Grand Marquessa Mandrathine appears again, perched with unsettling ease on a toppled column. This time, she’s drinking something from a cracked amphora labeled “TRUTH WINE.” A gold stylus floats behind her head, sketching sigils in midair.

    MARGO (with a sigh):
    “Right. Buckle up, Whelp. This part’s where it gets messy. Divine, monstrous, and real damn weird.”

    ✦ WHO (OR WHAT) ARE CHRONOGODS? ✦
    Behind her, a figure assembles itself from ash and light—a stylized chronogod. Four arms, two heads, a spindly, shifting geometry that never quite finishes rendering.

    MARGO:
    “Chronogods. You’ll hear ‘em called architects, designers, gods, tyrants, weird uncles. All of it’s true.”

    She stands and gestures at the figure.
    “They build the chronospheres. The rules, the mechanics, the illusions, the weather. Magic? That’s theirs. Societies? Theirs. Butterflies that explode when you lie? Also theirs.”

    “But here’s the bit they don’t put on the recruitment stone: Chronogods don’t pick who restarts. Don’t decide who makes it to the Nether. That’s our job.”

    A second chronogod joins the first. This one flickers with feline grace and a nametag that reads “Dave.” The other just growls and eats a sunbeam.

    “Some work in pairs. Like Sarah and Dave. Others run solo. Some vanish mid-sphere. Some—”
    Her tone sharpens
    “—break the rules.”

    ✦ WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A CHRONOGOD FAILS ✦
    The video cuts to the image of a crumbling tower: a world mid-collapse, mythics erupting from the ground like tumors. Floating numbers tick down in reverse.

    MARGO (low and grim):
    “When a Chronogod makes a mistake… things unravel. Systems destabilize. Mythics go rogue. Chronospheres close early. Sometimes, other chronogods pull the world into a new mantle. Other times?”
    She drains her amphora.
    “It’s up to the Dragonkin to finish what they couldn’t.”

    “One chronogod—Harwin—decided to bind himself to a kin. Real romantic.”
    Her eyes narrow.
    “He got his heart eaten by a Mythic named Sol.”

    ✦ AND SPEAKING OF MONSTERS... ✦
    A new figure fills the screen: massive, shifting, impossible to focus on. A Mythic.

    Its form is part mist, part bone, part dream made flesh. It shifts through antlers, vines, iron claws, and star-warped eyes.

    MARGO:
    “Mythics. They’re living programming. Sentient constructs."

    “Chronogods design ‘em to advance kin stories. Some inspire. Some challenge. Some rip out your spine and sing lullabies into the hole.”

    “They are not stable. They develop agendas. Some think they’re gods themselves, some just want to serve their function."
    She rolls her eyes.

    “But treat them with caution. And always—always—report if one starts tampering with restarters outside their scripted sphere.”

    ✦ ENVIRONMENTAL CORRUPTION
    The screen now fills with a timelapse of a city—beautiful, structured, vibrant—slowly warping into ruin. Magic bleeding from the edges of sky. Goats walking backwards. Lightning trapped in jars.

    MARGO:
    “Corruption. Not the political kind. Though you’ll see that too.”

    “We’re talking chrono-altering corruption. This happens when a kin, restarter or not, makes a decision that violates the underlying logic of a chronosphere. Break the wrong system. Kill a mythic too early. Merge two timelines. Boom. You’ve got roots growing out of memory and a sky that won’t stop screaming.”

    A shot of a fractured crystal embedded in someone’s chest flickers briefly on screen.
    “Restarters tend to be at the center of this. Or affected worst. Sometimes, corruption lingers. You’ll see it in their auras. Their magic. Their eyes. Or, if they’re real lucky...”
    She grins darkly.
    “Their tails.”

    ✦ WHO FIXES THAT?
    The screen glitches.

    A new figure appears: small, hunched, wearing a badge that says “Chrono-Environmental Janitor: Level 6.” He looks… tired.

    MARGO (sipping her wine again):
    “Nobody really. Sometimes chronogods. Sometimes support teams. Most of the time, we slap a ‘tickle-clock’ on the world and pray it holds together long enough for a final evaluation.”

    Her smile fades just slightly.
    “But if it doesn’t? That’s when we evacuate the restarters. Collapse the sphere. Salvage what we can. Cry in the staff lounge.”

    A beat.
    “You’ll get used to it.”

    ✦ BONUS ROUND: THE DAMNED, AGAIN
    One last image: a vast, burning chronospace. No stars. No exits. Only red lightning and spiraling screams.

    MARGO (soft now):
    “The Damned aren’t just failed restarters. Sometimes, they’re mythics who went too far. Chronogods who tried to be heroes. Advocates who broke protocol. That place? It’s a chronospace that fell apart—and now powers the whole system through agony.”

    A pause.
    “You will not go there. Unless you break the laws of our order. In which case—try not to scream too long. It echoes.”

    MARGO (clapping her hands):
    “That’s segment three, bright eyes! Get some water. Hug a support team member. Do not attempt to touch a mythic. Seriously.”

    “Next segment’s a juicy one: how we pick who becomes a restarter, and how to tell if someone’s on the brink of damnation.”

    She lifts her glass.
    “And remember: you’re here to observe. To report. To believe in them—until they prove they shouldn’t be believed in anymore.”

    “Onward, little Whelp. Segment four awaits.”
    “Chrono Orientation for Younglings, Vol. 1”
    Segment Four: Selections, Failures, and the Art of Letting Go

    The screen hums to life again.

    This time, the background is strange—more abstract than before. A vast star-map sprawls across a black expanse, with glowing threads of energy tethered between constellations and kin-shaped silhouettes. The diagram pulses faintly. Occasionally, a thread snaps or fades. Others glow brighter, branching toward a horizon that has no top or bottom.

    [TITLE CARD: “Becoming a Restarter: Why You? Why Not Your Brother?”]

    MARGO:
    “So you’ve heard the whispers by now. Maybe even peeked at a few bios while sorting your first data clusters. Why her? Why him? Why them and not the kin who built cities or fell in love with gods?”

    She stops, taps a glowing thread suspended in air. It shivers.
    “Why does one kin become a restarter, while another becomes soup?”

    ✦ HOW RESTARTERS ARE CHOSEN ✦
    MARGO:     “It’s not fairness. It’s not pity. It’s not fate. It’s impression.”

    “To be a restarter means you made the system look twice. It means your death was meaningful. Your decision shattered enough reality to echo. Your life generated heat, story, ache, myth.”

    A projection appears of a kin frozen in a moment of sacrifice—arms outstretched before a collapsing shrine.
    “Some restarters are chosen mid-life. Some, posthumously. And the Dragonkin teams—our teams—make the call.”

    “Each marked restarter has an Advocate, a Support Scribe, and an Anti-Advocate. We argue. We watch. We observe everything from their magic patterns to their handwriting. And when enough of us agree—”
    She snaps her claws.
    “The brand is laid.”

    ✦ THE DRAGONKIN MARK & RESTARTS ✦
    A glowing symbol—intricate, coiled, shaped like a burning seed—appears in the air, then embeds into the chest of a projected kin.

    MARGO:
    “This is the Mark. Invisible in most worlds. Tied to the spine and soul. Once placed, it’s permanent. Even if the kin forgets. Even if the world forgets them.”

    “Seven restarts. That’s the gauntlet. Survive seven Chronospheres and you’re eligible for ascension to the Nether.”

    “But remember—Chronospheres aren’t just relocations. They’re trials. They test grief, joy, pride, sacrifice, obedience, rebellion, rage, love, and the raw capacity to evolve.”

    “The first three are usually soft—memories wiped, magic limited. The next three are hard—full recall, full pressure. And the final one? That’s your proving ground. Fail there, and it’s out of our hands.”

    ✦ FAILURES AND ABANDONMENT ✦
    The stars dim.

    The thread map flickers. One of the tethered figures dims to grey. The others begin to vanish. A countdown begins in faint glyphs behind Margo’s wings.

    MARGO (somber now):
    “Sometimes, a restarter doesn’t make it. That doesn’t always mean death.”

    She looks directly at the camera.
    “It means the Support Team agrees: there’s nothing more to give. They’ve plateaued. Collapsed inward. Lost too many pieces. Or their threads simply no longer matter.”

    “When that happens, representation is dropped. The Mark fades. And the kin doesn’t go forward.”

    A silence. Then:
    “They go backward.”

    ✦ THE DAMNED (AGAIN) ✦
    A vast red moon appears on screen, orbiting a plane of shattered realities. It screams faintly, like wind through hollow mountains.

    MARGO:
    “You know this part. The Damned go to the collapsed chronospace—the one we never fixed. The one we keep broken.”

    “It’s where the energy for the entire Chrono System comes from. Suffering, you see, powers everything.”

    She says it without cruelty. Without drama.
    “Not as punishment. As fuel.”

    “We don’t make the rules. But we enforce them.”

    ✦ WHAT IF A KIN CHANGES CHRONOSPACES?
    Now the star-map zooms out, revealing larger shapes: Chronomantles like galaxies, swirling within the shape of a great shell. Then beyond even that… a new space, darker, lined with gold script. The Chronospace boundary.

    MARGO:
    “If a restarter slips into a new Chronospace? The slate is wiped clean. Progress is gone. Their counter resets to zero. Memory is erased unless manually carried—rare.”

    “This happens when Chronospaces destabilize too hard to be contained. It's chaos when it happens.”

    She waves a hand, and one kin on the map jumps systems.
    “Some, like your case studies, retain memory across boundaries. Most do not.”

    “But rest assured: we track them. We always track them.”

    ✦ THE ROLE OF ADVOCATES AND ANTI-ADVOCATES ✦
    Two dragonkin appear beside her: one shimmering in blue-green ink and arcane robes, the other cloaked in void-leather, armor glinting with Nethersteel.

    MARGO:
    “Support Teams are threefold. The Advocate fights to keep the kin moving. They appeal to Chronogods, file system override requests, craft gentle encounters.”

    “The Anti-Advocate… well, they don’t root for failure. They just root for truth. If a restarter is slipping, they start the paperwork.”

    She tilts her head toward the dark-armored one.
    “They answer to the Nether.”

    “And then there’s you. The Observer. The Whelp. You’re the first eyes. The ones who feel when something cracks. You’re not here to interfere. You’re here to bear witness.”

    A pause. Her smile returns, quiet and kind.
    “And believe me, Whelp—some of the things you’ll see? They’ll need someone to remember them.”

    The screen flickers.

    MARGO (softer):
    “We don’t save the world. We record what it did. We don’t choose the worthy. We measure their weight.”

    “Sometimes… the weight is beautiful.”

    “Sometimes… it drowns them.”

    The camera zooms out from Margo, who is now seated on a floating platform, watching the chronosphere rise and fall in the bowl of her claws like a pearl.

    MARGO (final words of this segment):
    “When you're ready, we’ll move on to the final segment: The Nether. The place we can’t explain until we see it. And the ones who might just get there.”

    [END OF ORIENTATION FOR NOW.]
     
  • Index
    • She stood frozen.

    Not by the wind. Not by the sound. But by the ruin.

    The statue—Cerberus—cracked like a rib breaking under a word too cruel to ever be taken back. The light, once gold, bled out like breath from a chest. She watched it happen. She felt it. In her own chest. In her own ribs. In the marrow of her hooves.

    “No,” she whispered. It was small. Pathetic. Not enough.

    Cerberus had moved. Without hesitation. Had taken it. All of it.

    She stepped forward—but her leg buckled. The moss clung to her like it was trying to hold her back from herself. Her mouth parted, no sound at first. Her breath caught, shallow and sharp. Her knees hit the ground before she even realized she’d collapsed.

    “Cer—Cer, no, I didn’t mean—” Her voice cracked around the name. “You weren’t supposed to—”

    Ber’s whine broke her worse than anything else. Rus nudging that body, Cer’s chest rising wrong. Wrong.

    “Mordecai—” she turned toward him but couldn’t look. Not at first. She didn’t know what she’d see. That sound he made—the one that came before he fell—it wasn’t a sound she’d heard from him before. And she had heard him scream.

    “I didn’t mean it,” she said aloud, louder now, to the wolves, to the tree, to the island, to herself. “I didn’t mean it like that—I was angry, I—I didn’t mean it.”

    She looked at her hands. They were trembling. Still coated in bits of moss from where she’d struck the chair. The chair that did nothing but let her rage.

    “I didn’t think—I wasn’t thinking—”

    She crawled forward. Not walked. Crawled. Her knees dragged against the wet stone and blooming lotus. Her hoof knocked a blossom aside and she whimpered. “I didn’t want this,” she gasped. “I just wanted—”

    What?

    To hurt him without hurting him?

    To scream without consequence?

    To say something cruel and believe she wouldn’t be listened to?

    Her fingers reached out, brushing the edge of the chair’s arm as if it might anchor her again. But she pulled away quickly. She didn’t deserve grounding. Not now.

    “Mordecai, please—” Her voice caught, “I want to fix it,” she said. “I want to take it back. Please Witherstalker, help me fix this.”
     
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