It was like the very air had been drawn from the room. Everyone save Ueet and the Altemen shuddered, panic written across their faces for an instant.

Rishmond reached out with his mind—an instinct now, like reaching for a cloak he always wore. He searched for lotret, the ambient dust of magic that floated everywhere on Rit.

But there was nothing. Not a speck.

He reached deeper, for lotrar, the deep pulse of Rit’s core, and felt only a faint trace. Muffled. Distant. A whisper through a wall. A voice across water. One source hummed nearby—Torg. The other felt impossibly far away, like the sighing of wind over dunes or the wash of waves on a far, forgotten shore.

The emptiness left him adrift—like trying to walk after the ground has vanished.

He looked to Illiar and Cantor. Both sat pale and tight-jawed, their expressions drawn and tired. Illiar’s fox-like ears, usually alert and twitching with every sound, were laid back almost flat against her head—an instinctive response, part fear, part strain. It made her look younger somehow. More vulnerable.

He didn’t hesitate. Gently, he led them to the nearest sleeping pallets and helped them sit. Torg followed, quiet and still, and stood before them—an unmoving beacon in a room that swallowed all light.

Rishmond took their hands, one on either side, and placed them on Torg’s crystalline shoulders.

The effect was subtle—but immediate.

A shared breath passed between them. Color returned to their cheeks, and a faint flicker of life returned to their eyes. The quiet no longer felt so heavy. So absolute.

Long moments passed before any of them stirred.

“Thank you, Torg,” Cantor said softly. Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “And you, Rishmond. I’m better now.” She looked between them. “Illiar? Rishmond? Everyone okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Rishmond, managing a small smile. “You?”

“Not fine,” Illiar replied, voice edged with biting sarcasm. “This is not okay.”

Rishmond nearly laughed. That particular tone of hers—sharp and stubborn—was reassuring in a strange way.

Across from them, Tybour and Rosa had settled on pallets of their own, just beyond Torg’s faint glow.

“It takes some getting used to, that’s for certain,” Tybour said. “But take a look around—the room never seems to bother the Altemen. Not even a little. And Ueet, of course…”

His voice dipped at the mention of Ueet. Quiet. Respectful.

Everyone knew Ueet was magicless. A rare, private burden in a world shaped by jzirittiah. Most people were too polite—or too uncomfortable—to talk about it. Especially in front of those who carried that absence like a scar.

Indeed, as Rishmond looked around, he saw the Altemen moving calmly along the edges of the room, unaffected by the strange absence that weighed so heavily on the others. They slithered gracefully between pallets and lanterns, offering quiet assistance where needed. The stillness didn’t seem to touch them. If anything, they looked at home here.

He spotted VanLeif Aericksen and Gregor Tranto sitting cross-legged on their pallets, eyes closed, faces serene in meditation. Haningway stood by the far door, arms folded, face unreadable. Bantor mirrored him on the opposite side, ears angled in opposite directions, listening intently.

Then Rishmond noticed something new.

A sound—soft, constant, like a stream running through a stone garden.

He turned, scanning the room, and found the source: more than half of one side wall shimmered with water. A steady, glistening sheet ran from ceiling to floor, coating the dark surface in a continuous, soundless cascade. At the base of the wall, a narrow trench caught the flow. A low wooden bench, topped with dark gray cushions, ran along the trench's length.

Ueet knelt there now, calm and solitary. He dipped both hands into the water, brought them to his face, and splashed it across his cheeks with careful precision. One of the Altemen approached without a word and handed him a small gray towel.

Rishmond watched, transfixed. Something about the simplicity of the act—the ritual of it—cut through the pressure in his chest.

“We should all prepare now,” Elder Geriswald said gently.

He stood at the foot of the pallet Rishmond shared with Cantor and Illiar, dressed now in a soft gray robe with wide, flowing sleeves. The color echoed the walls and cushions, making him seem like part of the room itself.

“We must cleanse ourselves,” he continued, “of the dust and burden of our travels. Not just of dirt, but of worry, of pride, of noise. We wash away the world before we sleep. In the morning, we will enter the Shrine in only clean, fresh robes.”

He gestured toward a gray curtain in the corner, a soft barrier that fell from ceiling to floor, marking a small private space.

“A changing area has been set up there, for those who prefer privacy.”

As if on cue, two Altemen approached and offered each of them a neatly folded bundle of cloth. Rishmond took his without a word. The fabric was light, soft beneath his fingers—warm despite the chill of the room, as though it remembered the sun.

“Come, ladies. Let’s get changed,” Rosa said, rising with a soft grunt. “This area seems like a good place to bed down for the night. You can remove your weapons and packs—leave them here. The floor’s warm, surprisingly, so feel free to lose your boots. Slippers are provided, and you’ll have to leave your boots behind when we enter the Shrine anyway.”

She was already out of her armor and weapon belt. With practiced ease, she tugged off her boots and moved to the next row of pallets across the narrow walkway. She placed her boots neatly in the storage box at the foot of a bed there.

She turned and smirked. “You men get to change out here in front of each other. Enjoy the bonding.”

Then, with a wicked grin, she planted one bare foot on Tybour’s side and pushed. He toppled over onto his back with a dramatic groan, which only made Rosa’s grin widen.

Illiar and Cantor exchanged a glance and slipped off their boots and socks. They lowered their feet cautiously toward the black floor, both hesitating just before contact. Rishmond wasn’t sure if it was fear of cold or the kreleit itself that made them move so slowly.

But Rosa stood there barefoot, smiling and unscorched. That seemed to reassure them.

Both women touched the floor at the same time—and identical looks of wide-eyed surprise bloomed across their faces.

Rishmond laughed.

He regretted it immediately.

Two sets of sharp eyes turned on him like twin lightning bolts.

“No no!” he stammered. “I wasn’t laughing at you—I mean yes, but—well, not like that! It was the look. Both of you—at the same time! It was just… you’re both so beautiful and then—that face, both of you—"

He trailed off, horrified.

“Sorry,” he muttered, cringing.

He yanked off his own boots and socks in record time, determined not to be left behind, and slapped his bare feet to the floor in exaggerated defiance.

Warm. Weirdly warm.

Soft, too. Softer than stone should be.

He glanced down quickly, wondering if he’d stepped on a towel or someone’s robe.

A synchronized scoff from Illiar and Cantor reached his ears before he even lifted his head. He opened his mouth to protest—then wisely shut it as the three women turned and made their way across the room toward the curtained changing area.

Rishmond turned to Tybour, who was lounging on one elbow, looking entirely too amused.

“What'd I do?” Rishmond asked helplessly.

Tybour just gave him that look.

The one he always did when Rishmond had said something foolish—something he should’ve known better than to say. It was equal parts amusement, disappointment, and the unspoken challenge of you’ll figure it out eventually.

He shook his head slowly, smiling that same wry smile, and began to disrobe without another word.

Rishmond glanced around the room, suddenly self-conscious.

He couldn’t just strip down here. Not in front of everyone.

It wasn’t that he was shy, exactly. But the birthmark on his back—those wing-like shapes—would mark him instantly. In the Arrangement, birthmarks like his were feared, hunted, burned from memory and flesh alike. He knew the people here weren’t like that—at least, not so strictly—but he had learned caution. It was survival. Even Beritrude and Halmond didn’t know.

Only Toby did.

His chest ached at the thought of his friend. His brother. He hoped Toby was safe—loved, protected. He knew Berti and Halmond would take good care of him, but still… the worry clung like a cloak.

Tybour, meanwhile, had already stripped down to his linen underclothes and was striking a casual pose, flexing just enough to admire his own reflection in a nearby black metal lantern housing. Of course. The man was almost unnaturally hairless and well-sculpted. Rishmond caught himself staring longer than he should have—then immediately looked away, cheeks burning.

Tybour raised an eyebrow, a slow grin creeping across his lips. Rishmond turned sharply.

And regretted it instantly.

Haningway was bent over near his pallet, retrieving a sock. His very, very hairy lower back was exposed to the world.

Nope.

Rishmond spun on his heel again, pulling his tunic up over his head as a distraction. Forget the robe. Keep the undershirt. It was thick cotton, heavy enough to hide the birthmark. It would have to do.

As the tunic cleared his head, the room came back into focus—and he froze.

Several Altemen moved about in various states of undress, their gleaming, muscular forms oddly statuesque in the half-light. Then his eyes locked onto her.

Halfway across the room.

Shoulder-length brown hair. Olive skin. Bare breasts.

Wizard Semmolee Turnsol.

Rishmond's brain shorted out.

He couldn’t look away. She was beautiful—unmistakably—and she seemed entirely unbothered as she let her shirt fall onto the sleeping pallet beside her. She turned, revealing square-cut white shorts that stopped at mid-thigh—standard soldier-issue.

She picked up her gray robe with calm grace, utterly composed.

Rishmond couldn’t breathe.

When did she even join the expedition? She hadn’t been on the elevator—had she? Was he losing his mind? And why—why for the love of the Gods—was she not behind the curtain with Rosa, Cantor, and Illiar?

He swallowed hard.

The sudden thought of Cantor and Illiar snapped him out of it. Oh no.

Rishmond tore his eyes away from Semmolee and spun back toward Tybour—who, of course, was grinning like an idiot.

He’d seen everything. Of course he had.

Rishmond’s panicked gaze darted around the room.

Haningway smiled at him, slow and knowing. Ueet and Bantore stood just beyond, both clearly having noticed where his attention had been. Rishmond's stomach flipped.

Everyone knew.

Heat rushed into his face, a bright, undeniable burn. It was one thing for Tybour to tease him—Rishmond could suffer that. But everyone else? There was no chance Cantor and Illiar wouldn’t hear about this. Rosa too. He’d turn red every time he spoke to them for days. Weeks.

Why did Semmolee change out here? Why did I have to stare so long?!

And of course, her bare chest popped right back into his mind with infuriating clarity. His heart beat faster. His face burned hotter.

He yanked the gray robe over his head in one motion, using it like a curtain to hide his shame. The fabric was rough—scratchier than the soft cotton and wool he was used to—but at least it gave him something else to focus on.

When he finally looked back up, only Tybour was still watching.

“Hey,” Tybour said, stepping closer, voice low. “It’s all good, Rishmond. No one’s gonna say anything.”

He leaned in a little, smirking. “Well, not around the women, anyway.”

Then, louder: “Not everyone,” Tybour announced, “is brave enough to show ribs like that—stickin’ outta that skinny chest!”

“Like a badly shaved thwippit!” Haningway guffawed, slapping Bantore on the shoulder. The big foxman didn’t even flinch—but his lips pulled back in a wide grin, and a low rumble of amusement vibrated in his chest.

For a second, Rishmond blinked. Wait… they’re covering for me?

“We’ve got your back,” Tybour whispered with a grin. “But, uh, maybe steer clear of Bantore for a day or two.”

“In the tribes of Uhl,” said Ueet, utterly deadpan, “we have a musical instrument made from thin wooden sticks. Your ribs remind me of it. Very brittle. Not a pleasant sound.”

The other men gave him puzzled looks.

“It’s called Zhuur qae’illth in Qoitiken,” Ueet continued. “It means… ‘Breasts of Death.’ It is most often played at funerals.”

For a second, there was silence.

Then the room exploded with laughter.

Even Bantore barked a hoarse laugh, deep and wild. Haningway clutched his side, and Tybour nearly doubled over. Rishmond couldn’t help it—he laughed too, his face still hot but his heart lighter.

Somehow, this was worse and better at the same time.

Moments later, Rosa, Illiar, and Cantor returned, all three dressed in soft gray robes and barefoot, their hair down or loosely tied back. They moved with casual purpose, placing their weapons, belts, and folded traveling clothes into the storage boxes at the ends of their sleeping pallets.

“What’s so funny?” Cantor asked, raising an eyebrow as she caught the tail end of the laughter.

“Just Ueet being Ueet,” said Tybour smoothly. “He was regaling us with the story of how he lost his virginity to a very old ulbanto herder woman when he was but a boy of twenty-two turns.”

“I only told that story in response to Tybour’s tale,” Ueet replied, voice dry as dust, “about his first time with a twenty-two-turns-old wash rag. Just last year.”

That deadpan tone—absolutely humorless—made it land even harder. The men cracked up again.

“Yes, well,” Rosa interjected, arms folded, “boys always brag about their greatest conquests when they’re with other boys. Just something to know, ladies. And the stories are always... enhanced. Usually by about a hundred percent.”

All three women exchanged long-suffering glances, the kind that said we’ve heard it all before.

“Fold your clothes and put them away properly,” said Illiar, voice brisk as she gestured toward the boxes. “Don’t expect us to do it for you.”

The tone hit Rishmond like a flash of memory—her voice, sharp and motherly, from their younger days when she’d bossed him and Toby around relentlessly. Back then he’d thought she was the most annoying person in the world.

Now it just made him smile.

Without a word, each of the men turned and began to fold their clothes, placing them into their boxes with just enough extra neatness to show they were listening—even if they wouldn’t admit it.

At Elder Geriswald's quiet instruction, everyone in the room gathered at the edge of the trough where the water ran down the black metal wall. One by one, they knelt and leaned over the low bench to cleanse themselves—hands, arms, faces.

The water was cold and startlingly pure. When Rishmond splashed it across his skin, he felt clearer. Sharper. The pressure in his chest eased just a little. The tension in his shoulders faded.

Afterward, they returned to their sleeping pallets. The room had quieted, the whispers of conversation giving way to the silence of anticipation.

Elder Geriswald turned to address the group—speaking not to the Altemen, but to the others. To the outsiders.

“Sleep now,” he said softly. “We rise early. Tomorrow, we enter the Shrine.”

He paused, looking around the room. His gaze lingered briefly on each of them.

“The experience cannot truly be explained. It is unlike anything in this world. The concentration of magic in the Shrine is the greatest known on Rit. Even the most seasoned among us have found it overwhelming. There are those who have collapsed within moments of entering—brought out unconscious, their bodies unable to endure the intensity of it.”

He let the silence settle before continuing.

“The magic itself is not dangerous. Not directly. But it is... immense. All-consuming. It sees you. It presses against every part of you. I must caution you—do not attempt to use magic inside the Shrine. Even a whisper of intent could trigger forces you cannot predict.”

He looked to Torg now, something reverent in his voice.

“We can only hope the Gods are in a listening mood.” A beat passed. “Perhaps, this time... we may speak with them again.”

He placed a hand lightly on Torg’s shoulder. “Perhaps what we have long searched and hoped for is finally with us.”

Rishmond slept better and deeper that night than he had since the expedition had left Retinor.

When his eyes opened, the room was dim. Most of the lanterns had been extinguished once everyone had found their pallets, leaving the chamber bathed in soft, golden traces of light that barely touched the black surfaces of the kreleit walls.

Illiar and Cantor had taken the pallets to either side of his, close enough that he could hear their soft, even breathing. Rosa and Tybour were a little farther off, across from Cantor. Their silhouettes moved only slightly with each breath.

But it was the pallet directly across the narrow aisle from his—just past the large storage box—that held his attention.

Bantore.

The massive foxman lay flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest, ears angled outward as if even in sleep, he was listening.

Rishmond shifted slightly under his blanket, trying not to think too much about it.

It wasn’t as if he’d been trying to climb into bed with Illiar—or anyone—and it wasn’t like anything had actually happened. But ever since the Semmolee incident, something about Bantore’s posture, his gaze, had changed.

Rishmond wasn’t sure if the man was angry, exactly. Just… alert. Watching.

Or maybe he was imagining it. Maybe the heat of embarrassment still hadn’t faded.

But even in the quiet calm of the Resting Room, he felt the weight of those golden predator eyes watching him.

Rishmond sat up slowly, the blanket pooling around his waist. From what he could tell, he was the first in the room to stir—aside from the two Altemen standing silently at their posts, one at each door. Each man stood in a soft pool of light cast by the lanterns mounted above.

They weren’t the same guards from the night before.

How often do they change shifts? he wondered. And why guards at all? Were they worried about kathtwips creeping in during the night?

The thought was absurd. And yet… it made the room feel less like a sanctuary and more like a threshold. Something still lay ahead. Something worth guarding.

Torg stood silently at the foot of Rishmond’s pallet, next to the storage box, as still as the stone from which he was carved. But inside him—inside that crystalline body—magic pulsed like sunlight caught in water.

So much light. So much beauty.

And yet, the room around him remained in shadow. Torg’s glow, somehow, didn’t illuminate anything else. It just existed within him, self-contained.

Rishmond tilted his head, watching.

Can anyone else see it? he wondered. Do they just see a lump of stone with stubby limbs and a faint hum of power?

It struck him then, gently but deeply: the thought that others might not see what he saw in Torg. That they might never glimpse the beauty of that flickering, prismatic magic within him.

It felt… sad, somehow.

Like a song no one else could hear.

“Rishmond?”

He turned. Cantor had sat up, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Morning, Cantor,” he whispered. The room was quiet—just the sound of flowing water and the soft breathing of those still asleep.

She rubbed at one eye, then looked at him. “Are you... ready for this? Today?”

There was a tightness in her voice—something uncertain. Maybe fear. Maybe worry.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he said, keeping his tone gentle. “Tybour’s been through it before. If there was anything we really needed to be afraid of, he’d have told us. Rosa’s been too, and she’s not worried.”

He leaned closer and reached for her hand. Their fingers found each other in the dimness, warm and familiar.

“Whatever it is,” he added, “I know you can handle it. You’ve always been tough. And you know I’ll be there for you.”

But she shook her head slightly. “I wasn’t worried for me, Rishmond.”

Her voice dipped even softer.

“I think Tybour—and everyone else—they expect something from you. Maybe a lot. And I know you can do it. I know it. But it’s just... a lot. And I worry that it might... bother you?” She said the last part like a question, unsure if she’d said too much.

Rishmond blinked, caught off guard.

He hadn’t really thought about it like that.

He was here because of Torg. That’s what he told himself. Torg had needed to come to the mines, and so he’d come too. That was all. Right?

Sure, people listened to him sometimes. But that was just because he tried to be helpful. He wasn’t important—not like Tybour. Tybour was the First Mage of Malminar. He belonged in great stories, in histories and legends.

Rishmond was just... Rishmond.

If something great needed doing, Tybour would do it. Or Rosa. Or Illiar, or one of the others. He was just here to help. To be useful. That was enough.

He gave Cantor’s hand a small squeeze.

“I don’t think anyone’s expecting greatness from me,” he said softly. “But... thanks for thinking I could handle it. That means more than you know.”

“All right, everyone!” Tybour’s voice rang out across the Resting Room, firm and clear. “Time to get up! Let’s get going!”

The quiet rustle of breath was replaced by movement—people rising from their pallets, rolling up bedding, murmuring to one another in hushed voices. In a matter of minutes, the entire group had gathered near the far door.

“We’ll return here for breakfast after we’ve visited the Shrine,” Tybour said. “It’s not recommended to go in with a full belly.”

Elder Geriswald stepped forward and pushed open the door. Like the one they’d entered through, it rotated silently on a central axis.

And then the world exploded.

Magic surged into the room like a tidal wave.

Rishmond staggered, nearly falling. The return of magic wasn’t gentle—it was overwhelming, blinding. It was like being yanked up from underwater and slammed into the sun. All of his senses blurred into one—sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, all tangled together in a single radiant confusion.

He thought he still held Cantor and Illiar’s hands. They’d taken hold before the door opened. But even that wasn’t certain now.

Everything was light. Color. Pressure. The world sang—and it was too much.

Then: a voice.

Tybour.

“Close your eyes,” he said, low and steady. “It helps. Just listen to my voice. Breathe. Through your nose. Slowly. Let the rest pass over you. Don’t try to hold it—just... let it roll off. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Rishmond focused. Not on the light, not on the roar of sensation, but on Tybour. On the rise and fall of his words. He pulled in a long breath.

He felt Cantor’s hand—tight, almost painful in its grip. Then Illiar’s—warmer, steadier. Real. Grounding.

The noise began to recede, little by little. His knees didn’t buckle, though he was surprised they hadn’t. His eyes were still shut, but the panic was fading.

Then: a thought, uninvited and strangely loud in the quiet he was trying to rebuild.

I felt Cantor’s hand first.

He had no idea why that thought came, or what it meant. Only that it had arrived, and it stayed.

“Rishmond?” Illiar’s voice was right by his ear. Close. Worried.

He opened his eyes.

Green light poured through the now fully opened door. People were already moving through it. Tybour stood just ahead, turned back to check on him. Cantor and Illiar still gripped his hands. Both were watching him closely.

“I’m... I’m good now,” he said. His voice sounded odd, like it came from behind stone or water. But he was still standing. Still breathing. And now—now the roar of magic had quieted to a distant hum. A song behind the walls of the world.

And what lay beyond the door was calling.

“I’m good,” he said again, stronger this time. “Let’s go. I have to see what’s on the other side.”

He grinned.

Together, they stepped forward and crossed the threshold into the Shrine.

The green light of the glittergreen crystals illuminated the entire cavern.

The soft yellow-white glow of the God-lights—present, still burning—was utterly drowned out by the overwhelming radiance of the crystal. The glittergreen pulsed from the walls, the ceiling, even the floor, which was laid with large, polished slabs of the glowing stone. It shimmered beneath their feet, a smooth path leading several yards forward toward the edge of a vast chasm.

There, a thick green mist hovered and rolled like a living thing—stirred constantly by a gentle breeze that blew across the chamber and swept over the edge. It smelled faintly of clean stone and something sharper, metallic and sweet at once.

Rishmond’s eyes were drawn upward.

Two long, black ladders descended from the ceiling—metal rungs reaching all the way to the chasm’s lip. The old method, he remembered. The way the Gods had once climbed down into the mine before the elevator.

But it was what lay beyond the chasm that stole his breath.

Glittergreen crystals burst from the far wall in chaotic splendor, half-shielded by a waterfall that tumbled endlessly down the cliff face. The water glowed green where it passed near the stone, casting the mist in a curtain of shimmering light.

The sight was unreal. A glowing green veil of water falling into a bottomless void, framed in crystal.

Rishmond could hardly move.

And then—

“Accept your purpose. Help us. Bring back order.”

The whispers slithered back into his thoughts—stronger now. More intentional. As if the Shrine itself were speaking directly to him.

He turned, instinctively seeking out Tybour. But the First Mage had already crossed the open floor to a cluster of low, backless benches arranged before a stone promontory.

Rishmond followed with his eyes.

The outcropping jutted over the edge of the chasm, mist swirling around its base. A dais rested at its farthest point—a four-foot-wide disk of white marble, set three shallow steps above the floor. The mist moved around it constantly, making the platform appear, at times, as if it floated.

Two statues flanked the approach—one on either side of the stone walkway.

The left statue was a woman, carved in flowing robes, her hand raised in what might have been a gesture of blessing or warning. She shone gold and white, serene and stern all at once.

The right statue was male—taller, broader-shouldered, though not towering. He held a staff angled downward, and his gaze was cast slightly to the side, like he watched the horizon beyond the mist.

Rishmond stared at them both.

Gods, surely. But he didn’t know which ones. Or what they were waiting for.

The Altemen priests and guards who had accompanied them had already taken their places, forming a quiet perimeter around the shrine. Silent. Watchful. Reverent.

Without a word, Torg stepped forward.

Not waiting for instruction. Not looking to anyone else for permission.

The little golem’s heavy steps echoed softly over the polished glittergreen floor as he moved straight toward the dais. His crystalline core pulsed with contained light as he mounted the promontory alone, coming to a halt at the base of the three wide steps that led up to the circular platform.

There he stopped, gaze lifted toward the waterfall. Waiting.

Behind him, the rest of the group watched in stillness.

Elder Geriswald moved next, gliding toward the start of the promontory and taking his place just to the side of the benches. One of the Altemen approached Rishmond, Cantor, Illiar, and gently gestured them down the center aisle.

Rishmond led the way.

The three of them walked slowly, every footstep soft on the glittering stone. The weight of attention pressed against his back—the entire expedition watched, though no one spoke.

At the front, just before the steps to the promontory, Rishmond began to turn toward a bench.

But the Alteman touched his shoulder and motioned him forward.

Not there.

Here.

Rishmond was ushered to the front, to stand beside Elder Geriswald—right at the edge of the unknown. Illiar and Cantor took their seats behind him, in the front row. Everyone else settled into the benches in silence, their eyes fixed on him.

Torg remained ahead, unmoving at the foot of the dais. As if waiting for something only he could sense.

Elder Geriswald gave Rishmond a small nod and turned toward the glowing chasm.

Rishmond followed his gaze.

And then—the light changed.

The waterfall across the chasm rippled, the smooth cascade twisting and reforming. The green glow shifted subtly, deepened, refracted—and a shape began to coalesce within the falling water.

A figure. A presence.

It resolved slowly into a form Rishmond knew.

The same face he had seen painted in the sanctuary at Rit. The same face from his vision atop the elevator: a beautiful, commanding woman with olive skin, golden-feathered wings spread wide behind her, and a mane of dark, curling hair that flowed like liquid ink.

Denisisie.

Torg bent low in a rigid, formal bow. His entire body seemed to shudder with reverence.

Gasps rose from the benches behind them.

Next to Rishmond, Elder Geriswald lowered himself in that impossible, fluid bow unique to the Altemen, his upper body bending at a perfect angle of devotion.

Rishmond hesitated—then bowed as best he could, left arm half-raised, right hand across his waist. He was late. Awkward.

But the vision in the falls did not seem to mind.

Her voice rolled out across the chamber—not from within the water, not from the air, but from everywhere at once. A sound that was music and power and judgment all at once.

“We haven’t much time,” she said. “The barrier is thin here—but reaching through it is dangerous. It exposes Rit to many threats. So we will dispense with the formalities.”

The sound of her voice was like a wind through his bones. Rishmond straightened slowly, barely breathing.

The Goddess had spoken.

And she was speaking to him.

"Rise, children. Do not be afraid." The voice of Denisisie filled the shrine, melodious and deep, vibrating through stone and bone alike. "Your Gods have waited for this moment for a long time. Hundreds of your turns. It is time now. Events have been set in motion, and our journey begins in earnest."

Rishmond dared a glance sideways. Elder Geriswald remained bowed low—lower even than before. His forehead hovered just above the floor. That couldn’t be normal. Was this truly the Goddess Denisisie? Were they... actually speaking to her?

He risked a look around.

All the Altemen were the same—flattened in reverent silence, foreheads pressed to stone. Even Tybour had fallen to one knee, his head bowed, arms drawn close to his chest in a posture of submission.

Then the Goddess spoke again.

"Come, children. Enough. Stand. Attend your Gods, and heed our words."

Rishmond raised his head—and found her looking directly at him. The face within the cascading water smiled. Not some distant, vague smile for the masses, but to him. He felt it. Knew it.

"Wizard Rishmond," the voice said, "thank you for bringing Torg to me. And for undertaking the task to get him here. You have pleased us with your sacrifice, your dedication, your strength of will."

Movement stirred behind her in the mist. Shapes. Vague and shifting, indistinct figures cloaked by the waterfall’s veil.

"But as grateful as we are, we request further service from you, Rishmond. We need a champion. One powerful in magic and devoted in heart and soul. We have chosen to ask you: will you serve? Will you help us save the world, Wizard Rishmond?"

Rishmond’s breath caught in his throat.

He took a step back, stunned. Her words rang like a bell inside him.

Save the world? Him?

That couldn’t be right.

“I—I’m not... I don’t think...” he stammered. “Are you sure you have the right person...? Goddess?”

There was a beat of stillness. Then:

"Step forward, Wizard Rishmond. Onto the platform. We would see you properly."

Torg was suddenly at his side. When had he moved?

The golem reached out a warm, stony hand. “Come, Wizard Rishmond,” he said softly. “Do not be afraid. My mistress needs to address you. I will be right here.”

Rishmond took his hand.

Together they stepped to the base of the dais, and Torg paused, motioning for Rishmond to ascend alone.

Rishmond nodded, heart pounding. He climbed the shallow steps.

As his foot touched the marble circle, it lit up beneath him with a soft white glow. A low hum vibrated through the stone—through him. He stepped into the center, and the world changed.

The breeze vanished. The sound of falling water ceased.

The whispering wind was replaced by a perfect, weightless silence.

He looked up.

And there she was.

Denisisie towered above him—twenty feet tall or more. The glow from the glittergreen crystals turned her silhouette into a halo of divine light. And behind her, the shadowed figures grew clearer—though still indistinct.

One, just to her right, wore a golden circlet on his brow. From its center shone a piercing white light, like a star or a flawless gem.

Rishmond stared at it, transfixed.

The face behind the light remained hidden. Still cloaked in shadow.

But the message was clear.

The Gods were watching.

"The others cannot hear us," Denisisie said gently. "They will receive their own questions. Their own instructions."

Her gaze remained fixed on him—eternal, soft, and impossibly ancient.

"For you, Rishmond, there is only one question."

"Will you accept the task we lay before you?"

"Will you travel to Bexxa’wyld, with your companions, and perform the Blessing ritual once again—to set right what went wrong before?"

Rishmond’s breath caught in his chest.

Bexxa’wyld.

The name echoed in his mind like the tolling of a great bell.

No one went to Bexxa’wyld.

Not anymore.

It was the divine retreat—the hidden, sacred place of the Gods, sealed since the Blessing. Every account he’d ever studied said the same: those who tried to reach it either never returned, or were destroyed before they reached its gates. Even mentioning the journey in formal magical circles was often considered foolish. A death wish.

And now she was asking him.

To go there.

To fix... something the Gods themselves had failed to fix?

His knees trembled.

“Goddess...” he began, his voice shaky and small. “I—”

He stopped.

Then tried again. “I don’t think I can do what you’re asking. It’s not that I don’t want to—I do—but... I don’t have what it would take.”

He looked down, unable to meet her gaze.

“I’m just a kid. From the Arrangement of Peace. I’m not special. I’ve never been special. I’m not like Tybour, or Rosa, or even Torg. I mess up. I talk too much. I don't always think things through. There are others who are so much more able to do what you need…”

He trailed off.

There was a long silence.

When he looked back up, she was smiling. Not pitying. Not amused.

Proud.

A gentle, maternal warmth radiated from her—so familiar, it made something ache in his chest. Her smile reminded him of Beritrude when he’d scraped his knee and insisted he wasn’t crying. Of Cantor’s mother, who’d always made him feel welcome. Of Halmond when he ruffled his hair and called him boyo, no matter how serious the moment.

She understood.

Of course she did.

"Tybour would be a much better choice," Rishmond added, softer now. “He always knows what to do.”

The smile on Denisisie’s face deepened.

And then, slowly, she spoke again.

“Very well, Wizard Rishmond,” Denisisie's voice resonated with finality. “Your answer has been given, and we will all live or die by it. Only one step remains before we begin.”

The soundscape shifted.

The roar of the waterfall returned, as did the ever-present whisper of wind. Voices murmured around him, low and unsure. Rishmond turned to look down from the dais.

His friends had gathered just beyond the stone benches, clustered near the statues flanking the promontory. Cantor and Illiar stood at the front, eyes locked on him, worry plain in their expressions. He offered a small, sheepish wave—hand low at his side. They returned the gesture tentatively, their hands raising just slightly.

Then he saw Tybour.

The First Mage’s face was tight. Anger? Frustration? Disbelief? Rishmond’s heart skipped a beat.

What had happened while he was speaking with the Goddess?

He started to step down from the platform—but couldn’t. His feet were frozen in place.

The voice of the Goddess rang out again, no longer gentle.

“The question has been asked and answered. Now judgment will be passed. Worthiness will be assessed. Rishmond, you shall be judged in the light of Truth. May you be found worthy.”

The stone beneath his feet erupted in blinding white light. The gentle hum he’d felt earlier became a roar—a physical buzzing like a swarm of a million angry wasps. Every sense overloaded.

The sound of the waterfall faded, swallowed by the pulsing energy. The world blurred. He smelled cinnamon, smoke, soap, pine sap, sea air, and sun-warmed grass. A thousand scents at once. His lungs burned. His chest squeezed tight, like a cantaboa had coiled around him.

He tried to scream—but no air came.

His vision was overtaken by light.

From below, the others watched in horror as a searing pillar of white light consumed Rishmond on the dais.

Green and gold sparks burst like fireworks through the cavern.

For a moment, they could see only a shadow—his silhouette within the column of radiance.

Tybour was the first to move. He sprinted forward, scrambling up the steps—only to slam into an invisible barrier. He struck it hard, rebounding with a snarl of fury and despair.

Inside the light, the shadow of Rishmond began to come apart.

Chunks broke away, floating upward, fracturing into smaller pieces—until nothing remained.

A final burst of blinding light—

Then darkness.

The entire cavern was plunged into blackness. Even the Altemen, whose night vision surpassed most mortals, staggered and blinked.

The glittergreen had gone dark.

The humming, vibrant pulse of lotret and lotrar—gone.

Only the dim yellow-white light of the God-lamps remained.

Tybour found his footing first. He lunged onto the platform—searching, reaching—

Nothing.

No Rishmond.

Only a faint mound of ash.

A breeze—steady and cold—swept the dais, and the ash scattered, falling silently over the edge into the abyss.

“No,” Tybour whispered, his voice breaking. “No. That can’t be—”

He spun.

“Torg!” he shouted. “Torg, what happened?! What did she do?!”

But the crystal golem stood motionless at the base of the stairs, lightless and still. The soft glow that had always emanated from within him was gone. The flowing magic that had given him life—gone.

Just cold, inert stone.

Tybour reached for the currents of magic—his instinct, his training, his birthright as a Wizard.

Nothing.

He pushed farther—reaching into the depths of Rit itself.

Still nothing. Only the faintest echo. Like the ghost of a distant fire. A memory of power. The sea of magic that had filled this sacred place was gone.

It was as if the Gods had swallowed it all in one breath.

And with it...Rishmond.