The following entry is written from Christopher's perspective, capturing what he witnessed in the frozen Expanse. His account, though framed as a journal, often slips into the immediacy of the moment, as if he is reliving events even while setting them to the page. This interlude brings forth a revelation unlike any they had yet faced. A creature of awe and balance, whose presence commands both reverence and fear.
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I write this now with a steady hand, though in truth, my pen shakes at the memory. Even as I set these words to the page, it feels as though the storm still presses against my chest.
I had searched for Anthony, then Brian, and turned to see that Miles was nowhere. I nudged Anthony on my left and asked, "Where is Miles?"
It was Brian who jabbed his elbow into me and pointed. I can see it still: Miles, a speck in the storm, scrambling to avoid being crushed as mammoths stampeded back and forth, their bulk shoving the snow like tides. Yet even as they moved, their eyes never left Bianca and Andrea. None of the creatures looked away. It was not only the sight of the women that held them, but the weight that followed their command: Come forth.
At first it was only a vibration in the air, subtle but relentless. My lungs strained against it as though the storm itself pressed into me. The mammoths faltered mid-step, their trunks curling close. The sabres' growls trailed off into silence, their heads sinking low. Even the eagle, wings stretched against the heavens, locked in place, every feather quivering. The whole Expanse froze, not by choice, but as if the very act of movement had been stolen.
"God help us," Anthony whispered, his breath fogging the air. His grip clamped my arm so tightly that the bruise still lingers.
The ice split with a muffled crack, and from it oozed a faint, silvery glow. What I first mistook for a blob swelled with each pulse, translucent flesh forcing its way through the fissure. Then it broke free, expanding, and I realized that what I had thought enormous before, mammoths, sabre's, even the eagle, was nothing beside this.
It rose until its bell loomed like a cathedral roof caught in the wind. Golden glyphs crawled across its surface, letters unmade and remade in an endless cycle. Within, a heart of molten gold pulsed in rhythm with the slow flex of the bell. Each contraction dragged the air with it, pulling us into its tide. The sound of its bell was not heard but felt, thrumming in my teeth, crawling along bone. I cannot say why I did not run then. Perhaps awe is stronger than fear.
Tentacles streamed below, dozens upon dozens, each tipped in spearheads of gold. They did not end where the eye expected them to. They lengthened, stretched, and stretched again, unraveling like rivers of silk until they vanished into the storm. When the golden spears brushed the snow, silver-blue sparks leapt outward, racing across the ice in patterns too deliberate to be chance. The ground reflected them until it seemed a second sky had opened, auroras rippling upward from below. I was completely enamored then as I witnessed this, and I still feel it running through my blood now as I write this.
It was Miles' scream that brought me back to earth, his voice cracking against the weight of silence. One of the mammoths, wounded earlier by a sabre, staggered and began to fall, its shadow swallowing him where he stood frozen.
I remember the zinging in my ears drowning out all sound, storm, beasts, even the clamor of my own thoughts. When I shouted "Move!" I knew it had carried. Not just to Miles, but to every living soul in that frozen tribunal.
Brian and I spurred our bears forward, then leapt off in panic to rush to him, but the mammoth's descent was faster. Miles clutched his head and cried out, "No, no, God, please." I recall the way his voice broke, as though it might shatter him before the beast ever did.
Then a blur of light shot past us. A spear-tipped tentacle whipped across the plain, seizing the collapsing mammoth before it struck. The giant lifted mid-fall, held in golden coils, then was set aside as gently as a feather. Another tentacle curled around Miles, pulling him upright with weightless ease. His legs gave out, but the tendril bore him steady until it released him unharmed.
Relief washed through me, and it must have struck Brian the same way. He threw his arm over my shoulders and muttered, half laughing and half shaking, "If we live through this, drinks are on you, Chris." I remember throwing my own arm around him, slapping his shoulder, and telling him I shared his relief that Miles was saved. For a moment, we allowed ourselves that small victory.
The plain remained still. No creature dared move. The jellyfish tilted its bell toward Bianca and Andrea, the glyphs across its crown blazing as though in salute. And then, as though commanded, the rest followed. Mammoths lowered their rune-lit tusks. Sabre's crouched low, their golden tusks steaming into the snow. Owls and cranes bent their wings. Even the eagle folded in mid-flight, dipping toward the ground in reverence.
Bianca and Andrea did not flinch. They stood at the heart of the storm, and before them, the tribunal of beasts had bowed. And as their heads lowered, I feared we might be the ones they bowed to, or the ones they judged.
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Thank you for reading this interlude. The appearance of the jellyfish marks a turning point in the journey across the Pale Expanse. It is not only a spectacle of divine creation but also a test for Christopher, for the others, and for us as readers to question what it means when beauty and terror are bound together.
As always, I value your thoughts and reflections. Did you feel the same awe, fear, or even relief that Christopher and the others experienced? Share your reactions as every comment helps shape the living pulse of this story.
With gratitude,
Amanda Hannibal