Written, voiced, and produced by Shawn Fitzmaurice
Voiceover Nerd Productions, Inc.
© 2025 Voiceover Nerd Productions — All Rights Reserved.
Moth performed by Shelly Fear – https://www.voiceoverslayer.com/
In the opening sequence, Sara is voiced by Hanna Burnett, https://www.hannaburnett.com/
Moth is voiced by Shelly Fear, Voiceoverslayer.com
Dear Listener, fear not.
When the constant is identified, the variables align and the system engages.
— Author Unknown
Sara lies on the ground, eyes closed, barely conscious.
“Please… don’t take Jon… Jon…”
She coughs, pulling in a broken breath. “Gods… where am I…?”
She opens her eyes to something unexpected—a vast chamber. The walls are black, the same material as the cylindrical boundary surrounding Gratch Hollow, the tower, and the Stranger’s sword. They glow with a violet light that matches the collars the Minotaur and child carried, and the one the Stranger had. A low, steady thrum fills the space, inescapable, as if the chamber itself were alive in some sterile way.
The Stranger appears near her, collapsing as he arrives.
“Sara…”
She turns on him, disoriented and agitated. “Why are you following me?”
He tries to answer, breath catching, body failing him.
“Who are you?”
“Well… you see… that’s the thing… I don’t really know…”
His focus slips past her.
“Oh… dear…”
“What?” she snaps.
“Grutžon…”
She turns.
Jon lies on his side, still, something small clutched tightly in his arms.
Her breath breaks. “Jon… Jon—Jon—Jon—Jon—no—no—please—Jon…”
She scrambles to him.
The Stranger stares, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. “Is that a baby Minotaur?”
Sara doesn’t answer at first, already reaching, already checking. “The Minotaur’s calf… Oh no… please… Gods, no…”
She shakes him. “Jon! Wake up! Please!”
“Is the baby alright?” the Stranger asks.
The baby sputters—a weak cry.
Jon inhales sharply, violent and animal, clutching the calf tighter as he breathes hard, frantic.
“Jon—the baby!” Sara cries.
Jon sniffs, shaking, disoriented.
“Jon. Look at me. Look at me, Jon. Look at me,” she says, trying to pull him back.
Jon digs for words. “The baby’s hurt… the baby’s hurt…”
He looks down, panicked. “Baby’s hurt…”
Sara checks quickly, hands moving. “No—no no no—”
Then—
Relief. Immediate.
“The baby’s okay… Jon… the baby’s okay…”
He gives no sign he’s heard her, still shaking, still holding the calf tight.
“Sara… whose blood is on the hoe?” the Stranger asks.
She freezes, then follows his gaze. “Oh gods… Jon…”
The hoe—dark, wet.
“Jon… look at me,” Sara says.
He doesn’t.
“There’s blood on the hoe, Jon.”
He recoils. “No—! No! No!”
“Baby’s blood!”
Snorting, shaking, breaking, Jon repeats it again. “Baby’s blood… it’s the baby’s blood…”
“No, Jon. The baby is okay.”
She steadies him, forcing his gaze back. He won’t meet her eyes. There’s something he’s not saying.
“Sara… dear gods… I think he killed something,” the Stranger says.
“Oh… Jon…”
He unravels. “No! No! No! Baby’s blood!”
She holds him there, grounding him. “It’s okay. It will be okay. Look at me. Look at me. It will be okay.”
Behind them—
A man slams into existence mid-scream.
“Naaahhhhgghhhhhh!”
He hits the ground hard.
Older. Broken. Struggling, it seems, to cling onto life long enough to say something.
“Tango One—here!!”
“Who is Tango One?” the Stranger asks, as if it is the only question that matters.
Chapter 25, Balance Through Chaos
I had never used the stones before that day. All the calculations, all the theory—and it looked like my variables were working. A small victory. I’d take what I could get.
And all this without my morning coffee. Mareen would say I was tempting fate.
Mareen…
I shouted for everyone to get ready to run, but the screaming child in the Minotaur’s arms and the chaos from outside were… I’m going to go with “unhelpful.” At best.
Tephra still held the door with precision, grace, and Goreborn brains in her hair.
The child’s hands were locked tight around that black collar. Same as the Stranger’s, with purple glass pulsing at its center. It was familiar, but I had no memory of it. That would have creeped me out if I’d had time to be creeped out.
The smoke was filling the room from the top down.
Oh, and Jon. Behind me, Jon let out a deep squeal. Frightened. Mournful.
But I couldn’t look away from the slate. A few extra seconds. That’s all I needed.
If it was wrong, it could… okay, it could spread someone across time and split their motion into overlapping frames which would snap back together, but out of sync.
That’s how I described it in my notes.
But what that means is that it would mangle them and kill them. And it would hurt.
Fire was definitely getting closer, and the smoke was stinging my eyes.
Outside there were two cults, but one was winning. “Noc’Thule Remains.” They kept chanting even as their lungs were giving up.
The boy’s screaming cut down my spine, but the smoke was starting to wear on his voice too.
All of a sudden there was a crash of heavy grunts and weapons. Something big violated Tephra’s defense.
I told myself Tephra had it, but there was no time to decide if I believed it.
I didn’t have time. I had to get this equation balanced.
I had the slate on my knees, and Tephra’s colorful recursion stones scattered in a pattern I’d calculated. Pip nudged one out of alignment and looked up at me.
And he was right. Again.
Steel rang out, louder than the boy. Then a horrifying squeal, and the sickening thud-crack of a body breaking.
A weapon hit the ground before the body did.
Jon…
I couldn’t break focus to check on him, and that felt like betrayal. I almost threw up.
Then, out of nowhere, someone wrenched my head back by the hair.
Chapter 26, The Final Time I Died, So Far
Tephra was gone.
Goreborn soldiers and Tuskari shoved too hard at the entrance, clogging it and slowing themselves.
“Noc’Thule Remains,” they chanted.
With all of the coughing and choking, none of them actually finished the full phrase. But they were determined.
Smoke was filling the hut. The temperature was… tropical.
The first one broke through.
He sized up Jon with a cruel, amused grunt—something like a laugh—then closed the gap and took a violent swing. He was no Tephra, but he made up for it with raw power.
I reached him in time to block the blow, losing a finger in the process. I barely noticed.
Violent deaths in bulk tend to dull the senses.
I deflected the second swing.
The axe missed Jon’s head but cleaved into the base of his neck, down through most of his ribs, in a sickening series of snaps.
I had never seen a pig smile before.
I don’t believe I had ever seen a pig smile before.
This one was coughing and squealing with delight at what he had done… (get some anger) until I took the smile right off—and his head along with it.
And then, from the shadows and smoke, the minotaur emerged.
She was pregnant. The human boy was clutched tight against her chest, screaming as loudly as his lungs would allow. She had her blade ready and was moving fast, straight toward Sara.
I choked out a warning.
Too late.
Her blade cut cleanly through Tansi mid-leap, then continued into the skull of a man holding Sara by the hair. He had come out of nowhere. Sara’s throat was already open before she knew what was happening.
I held the Tuskari back as long as I could, using everything I had learned fighting Tephra. Thousands of times.
But the smoke was thickening, and apparently my tolerance had too. I lasted longer than they did. One by one, oxygen-starved, they stumbled—and I ended them.
I dropped low to breathe and looked around.
Sara lay on the floor with her back to me, as if she had been sitting, then toppled sideways.
Pip was nearly motionless between Sara’s body and what remained of Tansi’s front half.
He finally rubbed himself against Sara’s hair and face.
Then curled up beside her in the blood.
The boy stood nearby the minotaur now, her back against the stone wall. He was still crying, as loudly as he could manage. She was alive, in pain. Sobbing.
Grutzon lay broken on the ground. A pure soul, if ever I had seen one. If I lived through this, I swore I would become more like him. I still don’t remember who I was—but he showed me who I wanted to be.
The fire outside was getting closer.
The minotaur’s labor had begun. She pulled the boy close and muzzled a kiss on his forehead.
“I’m sorry, Kellor,” she said.
She took his head in her hands, pinched his nose, and covered his mouth. It did not take long.
I think she wanted one peaceful moment with her child before the end.
The calf was born, and she lifted it—blood and afterbirth and all—and held it to her chest for its first and final meal.
The stone walls of the hut began to radiate heat. But before it became unbearable, the minotaur and her calf succumbed to the smoke.
I closed my eyes and did the same.
And that was the final time I died.
Err… so far.
Chapter 25, Balance Through Chaos (continued)
My head snapped backward.
At the same time, Pip hollered. It startled me even through the chaos.
Then he tapped the purple stone. Just barely.
A blade about to cut my throat froze just as it touched skin.
The sound in the hut collapsed, pulled inward and sort of forced back together unpredictably.
But predictably, the boy’s screaming didn’t stop. Because of course it didn’t.
At the doorway, motion kind of sloshed. Goreborn slowed as they headed toward us. Debris and sparks stretched into long lines as they tried to catch up with themselves.
My scalp hurt where the man had yanked my head back.
His knife vibrated against my throat, snapping away and then back to a.. a hard limit just touching my skin.
Tansy was frozen mid-air, mid pounce on my attacker. Her hind paws were hovering just above my eyebrows, stuck in the same snapping edge as the knife.
I couldn’t see Moth.
The Minotaur moved away from the shadows in my direction.. She was quick, and clutching the boy tight. Her blade was drawn.
And Pip.
One paw pressed against the purple stone, flicking against the same limit, in sync with the blade at my throat and the cat above my head.
I knew the configuration Pip had set.
I’d drawn it a hundred times and rejected it each time.
It was a local time dilation:
A bubble around the stone and the person carrying it, where time was close to normal. real-time…
There was an outer bubble.
At the edge on the inside relative time ran slow. It almost froze. Then from there to the outer edge, it crept back toward real-time, but only about halfway. and right at the edge, everything was back to real-time… relatively.
Oh, but It was unstable. Too dangerous.
Still, it was a chance we weren’t expecting, so I went with it. What else could I do?
If unexpected variables compounded, in theory everything could shift.
Apparently I was about to test that theory. The hard way.
“This will not hold,” I shouted.
The Stranger looked at me, weirdly calm, one hand clamped around the stump of his finger. Blood hung in suspended beads around him. He was only now noticing the oddities.
Gods, It took him long enough.
Jon pitched beside him, snapping back again and again.
“Sara! Look out!” the Stranger shouted.
I don’t know how he knew my name.
A massive shape filled my vision.
The Minotaur’s knee slammed into my forehead.
I was expecting it to hurt.
The blade flashed once… a clean deadly arc.
…and my hair fell free. Behind me, the assassin remained motionless, hair still locked in his fist.
I took the Minotaur in at once. Towering. Focused.
Frightened.
Pregnant.
She pushed past toward the doorway, clutching the child tight, blade steady. Goreborn hung around her in unfinished motion.
I reached for Pip, tried to slide the stone from beneath his paw. His paw wouldn’t give.
The stone did.
I eased it free, inch by inch, not a hair of his fur moving with it.
The stuttering stopped.
Jon froze. The blood beads held. Everything caught in the distortion locked at once.
I heard the Minotaur’s breath catch. Pain crossed her face. She staggered, bracing against the wall.
She was in labor.
Chapter 27, The Legend of Thorgal Ru’un the Peaceful
“We have no stars in our sky,” and such begins the most important surviving text of the ancient, pre-Divergence era.
In the introduction to *The Stitched Sky: An Assembly of Celestial Testimonies*, as recorded by Ilra Wint—village chronicler and seamstress—my crush across centuries.
She claims for herself the title “a woman with ink and a thread.”
I have given her others.
Mistress of the Double Entranda.
Curator of Contradiction.
Seamstress and Cartographer of Secondhand Skies.
What I wouldn’t give for the chance to be rejected by her in person. Oh, were time travel possible…
Ilra tells us that Gratch Hollow—which stood where Bralith stands today—had no stars in its sky, the same as Bralith now.
She continues…
“I’ve spent the better part of two decades collecting their accounts: wanderers and traders, bards and priests, even the quiet ones who vanish before morning. They speak of lights in the night sky. Some whisper names. Others draw what they remember. No two sketches are the same, yet close enough that I believe them. And always, there are stories.”
Among these testimonies is the Legend of Thorgal Ru’un the Peaceful, preserved in substantially the same words later recorded in the *Book of Ru’un*, and still spoken within our Runian Minotaur community.
Some of Ilra’s travelers claimed that, in the stars of other lands, Thorgal Ru’un watches Velmior with his red eye, standing vigil to ensure Velmior does not forfeit his chance at atonement, and at last reclaim his long-lost peace.
They further claimed that Ru’un’s horns point toward Umbrelith and his shadow, guarding the world against poisoned truths and patient lies.
And in some tellings, he is named as the fulfiller of the uncompleted hope of the Unknown Shaman of Mo’Rath.
This is how it is recorded.
**The Legend of Thorgal Ru’un the Peaceful**
From within their own mazes, a great hatred arose. The Minotaur clans claimed unity, but when truth was unknowingly corrupted by a whisper from without, lies became their new truths.
They struck at each other with tainted hearts. Families were cleaved by the fears these lies invoked. Fear begat fury, and fury begat hate. Unity died.
Noble warriors who once stood together turned their blades in betrayal, each with unwavering commitment to their own new truths.
The mazes were set ablaze, turning homes into graves. Entire bloodlines were erased.
When the enemy came, the Minotaurs were already broken. The foe bound them in both flesh and mind, again feeding them the “truths” that had torn their people apart.
Only then did they wake, knowing they had been defeated long before the enemy was even known—poisoned by hatred for each other, their lands taken without a fight.
The Minotaurs, few in number and weak in body, rose. Outnumbered, they fought with the fury of gods. They won the war, but were scattered like ashes. Their victory was no victory at all.
And in the silence that followed, Thorgal Ru’un the Peaceful walked the broken land, carrying the burden of impossibility.
Against all odds, he gathered every soul that bore horns, regardless of bloodline or allegiance. One by one, they followed.
Forged from too many lineages to count, a new people arose. Though many later scattered to the corners of the world, they claimed the same home and swore to end disputes without blood.
Across generations—through failures and triumphs—they cultivated peace and Ru’unian unity as a way of life.
Chapter 25, Balance Through Chaos (continued)
We had to get back to the chapel, and the Moment Field. I knew that was where we would exit the hollow, but honestly, I still don’t know how I knew that.
Jon was on the floor, frozen in place. I moved away to take in the room, and he started to slowly roll to one side. I thought I could help him now. I stepped closer—and he just rolled back.
I moved in closer. When he was inside the bubble, he picked up exactly where he left off—garden hoe in the air, eyes closed, squealing in panic. He rolled one direction like he was trying to get away.
Then he saw me.
Horror. Confusion. Betrayal. Any of those. Or all of them.
He had been under attack. Then he was on the ground.
And suddenly I was standing over him.
I told him we were going and took his hand to keep him close. He did, but for a second he pulled back, like there was the faintest chance I might hurt him.
I couldn’t pull Tansi out of the air any more than I could move a mountain. She and Pip were solid. Unmoving.
The assassin with my hair frozen in his fist was the same.
The Minotaur and child moved like normal.
The purple gem in their shared collar glowed in sync with the Stranger’s.
We headed for the door.
Outside, cultists were kneeling in the ash. They smiled while they choked on the thick smoke, chanting “Noc’Thule Remains” between gasps.
The ones nearest us were solid, almost unmoving.
Farther back, they moved slowly.
There were Goreborn everywhere. Some frightened and trying to run.
Tuskari slaughtering the ones who ran.
Nearer to us, some Goreborn were ripping a human body apart in slow motion.
Hands pulling slowly. Teeth bared. A limb parted from a shoulder so slowly you could watch the skin tear.
There was something else hurling toward us. Its motion was stretched forward, drawn out in one direction—almost like a cone pressed through the air, its wide end aimed straight at me.
I let go of Jon’s hand and took a step back.
He stopped. Mid-motion.
This was not for him to see.
I knew what was coming, but I couldn’t look away.
It was a head.
Thrown hard enough that the front had already reached its limit, while the rest was still arriving. Hair trailing in rotation. Features pulled long. The distance between where it had been and where it was going stretched thin, like it was being dragged through thick glass.
As it rotated slowly, face coming into view, I met Sister Tephra’s eyes. I swear it was the same look she would give me when I succeeded in something that once felt impossible.
That was impossible.
I vomited and fell down hard in the ash. My knees just buckled.
Sister. Tephra…
I didn’t have time for this.
I got myself up and brought Jon back into the bubble. He picked right up mid-cough and kept going.
The Minotaur broke off on her own when she saw a safe way through. She was stumbling and choking, but she moved fast.
The Stranger was with me, moving cleanly, untouched by the drag. He motioned for me to follow.
Just then my tongue pressed hard against the roof of my mouth, as if I were holding something there—like a stone.
Which, obviously, I wasn’t.
“No!”
“This way,” I said, pointing east.
This was absolutely the right way to go. I just didn’t understand why I knew.
Chapter 28, A Live Account of a Moth to the Flames
Piplomon roared.
GO!
Tansarath attacking man. Not in the plan.
Smell new blood from Two-Legged Bovine. Calf is coming soon. I hear it moving.
Whiskers along the wall. Stay in the shadow.
There. Sara’s stone—the one that’s not glowing.
Got it.
Hang on to it, Mo’Thera. (Moe-Thera)
Broke a fang on the stone. Do not cry out. Blood in my mouth. Swallow it. Keep scent from big Jons.
Tastes so strong. Can’t smell the dark corners.
Doorway is darker now. Good cover. Feet. Hooves. Tricky to wind around. So much motion.
Big Jons ahead are moving fast like flies. Tougher to catch. Big Jons here are normal. Next one fast. Then faster. Further. A blur.
Swords on the ground. Sharp. Jump.
Don’t swallow the stone with the blood, Mo’Thera.
Tephra’s staff. Split.
Severed limbs. Guts. Blood. Brains… delicious.
I’m hungry now.
No. Now I’m sick. Going to cough it up.
Big Jons moving so very fast.
Umph. Everything snaps.
Big Jons keep up.
Behind me, Big Jons are very slow now.
Piplomon did it.
(like acknowledging it was a success, not asking which one)
Climbing tree. Clamp teeth onto the stone. Don’t drop it.
So sick. Swallowed too much blood. Still more blood.
Safe branch.
Caaahhh… now is not the time.
Guh, cha… like my tail coming through my mouth. Worse. Big pain, moving up to my throat.
So much blood. My broken fang in the hairball.
Stop. Gain strength. Let new blood fall here. Smoke will hide it.
I can smell now.
So much smoke up here. Human. Big Jons. Their waste. Blood. Singed hair and fur mix with burning.
So much burned human, livestock, crops smell on fast paths for Sara.
Glowing smoke from fire. Loud fire. Screams. New noise. Flame focused. Controlled.
Someone is burning our home on purpose.
Sara cannot go the fast ways. They are blocked.
Hard to breathe. Smoke here. More smoke.
Feeling weak.
Sara could go around the tower, like the dog I chased to the lake.
Maybe under the stone mill—lots of mice—and straight run to the chapel.
I can’t see through smoke. Need to go there. No good scent.
Pick up the stone. Don’t drop.
Hurts so much on broken fang wound.
Fire is hot. Duck under logs. Over boulders. Around bodies.
My tail hurts.
Tired. Hard to move.
Guh, cha… so much blood.
Keep running, Mo’Thera.
I see the chapel. Only stone walls. No roof. No houses.
The grassy Moment Field singed, but not burning.
So tired.
No trees to climb.
Go back to guide Sara.
Duck under the mill. Big person—or a big Jon. Black and shiny. Purple glow on its head. Throwing fire from a tube.
The loud, upset human cub and the stranger with the black blade have the same purple glow.
So much blood from mouth. Can’t swallow.
On ground. Puddle.
Stone in mouth. Out from teeth. Press tongue to stone. To top of mouth.
Stone hums.
Falling asleep.
Sara. This way.
Sound of lion and panther.
Brother and Sister. Keep Sara safe.
Stone slipping from mouth.
Fur singed. Tail burnt.
Sara. This way.
Can’t fight it. Sleep pulling. Head in blood.
Sara. This way.
Chapter 25, Balance Through Chaos (continued)
I had almost reached the edge of the Moment Field, struggling for breath, when Jon let go of my hand.
I turned.
I couldn’t see the Minotaur or the Stranger.
Jon was running toward the fire, garden hoe clutched tight, choking, coughing, and squealing. Somehow still standing.
I wasn’t ready for this.
Then, through the smoke, the Minotaur surged forward, forcing herself upright after a stumble, choking out the most mournful sounds.
Her belly had changed shape. Her legs were covered in a thickened mix of ash and dark blood.
The human child was still clutched tight in her arm, limp—either asleep or unconscious, gods willing. Vomit and ash soaked both of their clothing and were matted into their hair.
A huge Tuskari was chasing close behind, stumbling but determined.
“Noc’Thule Remains,” he repeated between coughs and wheezing.
Her eyes…
Fear. Sorrow. Something worse than either. Tears cut paths of mud down her face through the ash.
As she stumbled onto the edge of the Field, she met my eyes, nodded once, and said, broken and urgent,
Sara, find me in Bralith.
I didn’t know what Bralith was—or how she knew my name—but I was certain I would find out soon enough.
I turned to look for Jon.
The Tuskari had collapsed.
Jon was still running back into the thick smoke, tail straight as a line. I tried to shout after him, but only managed a weak cough.
From somewhere else—closer to the flames and far from Jon—the smoke split open, and two big cats burst through the fire.
One was a lion. Ash decorated his great mane like snow. He carried the Stranger, barely moving, by his clothing, clenched in his jaws.
The other was a panther, ashes stark against its pure black fur. It held little Moth by the scruff like a kitten, carefully in its teeth.
Moth was limp.
“Jon,” I managed to shout weakly. “What are you doing? Come back.”
Another Goreborn burst from the smoke, barbed chain swinging, zeroing in on Jon.
I ran toward him without thinking, and something soft struck me sideways.
A gray paw—like a cat’s, but much larger.
I remember thinking I had to be hallucinating. That I was dying.
Darkness… slipped in. Quickly.
And then, soaring toward Jon, a winged shape crossed my view.
Don’t take Jon too, I whispered to the shape.
Please don’t take Jon.
And then I was gone.
This is my last memory of Gratch Hollow.
So far.
A man violently pops into existence mid-scream. Older, in his sixties.
“Naaahhhhgghhhhhh!”
His body slams into the floor.
He holds a black collar with glowing purple glass, identical to the Stranger’s, identical to what the Minotaur and the boy carried.
The collars react instantly. Vibration surges. They snap against each other with violent force, and the Stranger is thrown backward to the ground.
The man gasps, ragged and shallow.
“Tango One—here!!”
The Stranger echoes it, half question, half declaration.
“I am Tango One?”
He continues:
“Back at the mill. Your uniform. I’ve seen this. It’s fused. It’s in you.”
The man grabs him, pulls him close.
“I am Kellor Voss. I burned Gratch Hollow…”
His breath is failing.
“It was me. My plan. My team.”
The Stranger starts to speak.
“Shut up!” Voss cuts him off, his voice weak but urgent.
“Find me. I’m here. Undercover. As a slave.”
His breath catches.
“Much younger…”
He forces the words.
“Find me. Tell him. Tell me. Project 451 will fail. He won’t understand yet.”
His breath falters.
“Take the watch.”
It’s partly embedded in his palm, chain hanging out.
“Bring it to him. He’ll know you’re true. I’ll know.”
Fading now.
“Listen. This memory is new. Shouldn’t have happened. You can fix this.”
“Don’t… let it…”
“Don’t let it burn…”
A long exhale.
His body fails.
End of scene.
Prophecy or Madness?
*The Wax Cylinder Recording Version*
Test, test. It looks like it’s working.
Unreleased Chronicle — Ilra Wint
I do not know whether these words should ever be heard. Perhaps they belong hidden until long after I have spiraled away.
Do the people of Gratch Hollow need to prepare for what might happen, or might it cause undue panic for what might never happen?
I would like to say it is not for me to decide, but I fear it might be.
This is my first voice-recorded chronicle using my own invention, which was supposed to be a machine to help me sew as my hands grow old.
The man with me in the tavern has asked that I not say his name, for a reason his eyes reflect as fear.
Man: I’m not afraid.
Oh, but you are. And that is why this story needs to be told.
He claims no measure of time; if true, it could be tomorrow, or a hundred years hence. Yet he speaks as if this history were already written.
His words unsettle me. I will write them down so I do not forget.
—
Fr. Thed:
This is a beautiful machine. It sits… I think it will sit in a museum someday as a first of its kind.
And you are as lovely as your words.
*(Audibly blushes.)*
History—err—prophecy tells us… that the villagers of Gratch Hollow gathered for an event they called The Moment, as they did every three days, four hours, forty-two minutes, and three seconds, to be precise.
The rituals were always the same. The mysterious figures flickered in, paused in a moment of life, and flickered away.
The people welcomed them, overwhelmingly believing they were the souls of the dying passing through on their way to whatever comes next. It was the best possible belief to hold in the face of a brutal truth.
(To Ilra.) Um… no. That, for the record, is hyperbole. Of course it is.
Then, at the field’s heart, rather than the souls of the dying, a podium appeared—tall as a man and a half, cylindrical, crowned with a polished dome.
It shared the same character as the black cylindrical wall surrounding the Hollow, and the tower that runs from ground to sky.
Through the assembly strode a man in a sharp black uni—outfit—carrying a black, blunt-tipped sword.
It was the same flat black as a crown-shaped ring he pulled from his pouch—a violet object like a gem at its center, prongs like a simple crest.
He set it over the dome.
Sparks leapt, and the gem began to pulse with steady violet light.
He raised the sword toward the central tower. It was inset with letters in white: VLM-YR. Velmior.
A jag of purple split sky and blade, then settled into rhythm with the Collar’s pulse.
He drove the sword into a waiting slot, and the light coiled inward and was gone.
In an instant, half the villagers vanished.
The man stepped back in smug triumph.
A gasp rose from those who remained, rising and bursting like a bubble of gas in a lake as their eyes and minds caught up.
But they never had time to question or mourn.
Another land pressed into the Hollow—city, mountains, countryside, small as a scaled model set.
Where the worlds touched, both crumbled, and fire began to spread, which would consume both worlds.
From beneath the mist, a vast shadow rose.
Some believed it to be the Nameless Empress.
Her voice, broken and booming, spoke.
Sounds of destruction drowned it, save one fragment:
“…Noc’Thule Remains…”
—
Ilra
If this was warning, I cannot say when it will come.
If it was madness, may it die with me.
