"No! My silver!" An old man drops to his knees, wailing terribly as his short-lived fantasy begins to fade.
The Stele of Prophecy comes apart at the extremes, breaking apart into motes of graying light. Each mote drifts into the air, almost touching the cavern roof, before disappearing entirely.
Squalling Senior lunges for the slab of silver out of sheer desperation, only to catch his forehead against the bar, which, unlike the rest, is going nowhere. Instead, it glows brighter than ever and shrinks down to the size of a rather large finger.
As he clutches his head, I take the sacred metal.
While this bar of Solidflame is far heavier than any object of its size had the right to be, the name far exceeds the weight in the palm of my hands. The Metal of Myth, feared creatures within and of the darkness.
During the war of Second Genesis, a single arrow shot into the sky shattered the Great Firmament, resulting in a flood that drowned the earth. That legendary arrow was released by the archangel, Uriel. And it was the first and last weapon composed entirely out of silver.
However, according to the same text, only the breath of utmost brilliance could reach the temperature required to forge such a fearsome weapon. And The Heavens themselves, perhaps even more horrified than their enemies, condemned Her Vehemence for introducing such a calamity to their battle.
[And though she brought an end to the bloodshed of a thousand-year war, she would weep in the darkness for all eternity. Like a beautiful garden that yearns for the sky, she was fated to be severed by the hand of her masters. Such is the end for a genesis dream. Such is the end for a boundless love.]
That was the last time she was mentioned in the sacred text.
Then what purpose do the ones above intend, if they lead me only to a forbidden power I cannot wield? And why is there a second of the one-of-a-kind relics my grandmother made a monument in our village? Perhaps even a third, if I'm to believe Sir Squalling.
Decoding the rest of the Stele will take time. Several new questions, yet it all remains the same.
There is a forest wherein a flock lies in captive.A shepherd is no closer to setting them free.
"Huh?" asks the old man, excitement returning to his voice. I hear scrounging around in the darkness, grubby fingers tapping against the stone. And then, he shouts. "Aha!"
"Good news, kid!" he announces, already on his feet. Something has changed in the way he speaks. His words spill faster than they used to, and the rhythm of his flame stutters, erratic. "I found something better than the silver."
"Are you well?"
"Ah, forget about me for a sec! Your old man's gonna be fine? But this… this is the Divine Stick of… sheep… herding. Now, if you hand me that piece of garbage you've got in your hand, I'll trade you for my treasure. And you won't have to worry about me beating you with it."
Under a thousand other circumstances, I would dismiss the old man's charade. However, if any stray wanderer had discovered this cave before us, word of a second Stele would have already shaken the earth. Therefore, whatever remains here must belong to the one who first brought it to this hidden place.
Hand outstretched, I ask the old man kindly, "May I see it, sir. Please?"
"No." The old man's firmness shatters the intention of courtesy. "You see with your eyes, not with your hands. And I don't make concessions for any customers who can't. You're not getting hold of this old stick until I get what's rightfully mine. Unless… you're willing to fight me for it!"
A sharp thwack lands on top of my head. "Ow!"
Thwack!
Thwack!
By the third hit, the limits of my patience are far behind me. I haven't a clue what game this old fool is playing, nor the time to bite my tongue and play along. "Enough!"
I seize the weapon mid-strike and pull with the strength I don't have. The old man lurches forward, slamming into me, flesh and bone collapsing into a heap of fury and disbelief. "Into what bosom of madness have you buried your head?" I roar, fury burning through my throat. Anger blazes in my chest, an inferno I can no longer contain. I should stop, remember the teachings, but this time, I fear the Heavens will simply have to forgive me.
I push him off, breath ragged, disgust spilling from every word.
"You worship your enemies, laugh when they strike me, you stoke my brother's anger, and now you raise your hand against a friend for greed's sake. Do you not tremble before the Heavens you defy? I gave you doubt when you spoke that madness in the desert, but you've shown me time and time again that you only believe in comforts and meaningless things!"
The old man wheezes — panting first, then laughing himself into another dry cough.
"Like you're any better, oh glorious one. Ever since I first laid eyes on you, I knew you were just like the rest. Another great savior, lifting his chin to the Heavens because he's never heard of the others, and he's nothing like them. Give me a break! For all your talk about saving the world, you don't care for a lick."
"I don't care?" The words scrape out of me, caught somewhere between laughter and despair. My voice cracks, a sound too small for the anger burning in my chest. "All I've done since the beginning of this march is care—no—suffer, for the rest of you!"
My breath comes uneven, half fury, half grief. "When the stemcutters attacked in the plains, it was I who hindered their advance. In the desert, I prevented you from running straight into the maws of the hungry scourges. And when you all fell asleep—time and time again—it was I who stayed awake, listening for steel boots so the lot of you would not be cut down for slowing the march!"
Each word leaves my mouth like the crack of a whip—too loud, too raw. My throat aches from the strain, and still, the heat will not fade. The flame inside me writhes, demanding release. For all the faith I've clung to, all the teachings that say to answer softly, I can feel them crumbling under the weight of this moment.
I draw in a trembling breath. "And now? I let myself be tortured by these nothing men with their filthy hands, so they don't find a crueler way to pass the time. All the while, I'm still searching, still hoping, still praying for a way to save the lot of you, and then the entire world."
My voice shakes, rising with the weight of all the nights unspoken. "And you. Being the heaviest burden of them all, you haven't a clue what I've sacrificed to keep you alive. The greatest of my abilities, drained each night to stoke your pathetic, dying flame — only so you can wake at dawn and find humor in my suffering."
"I have every right to look down on you, if none else." Brushing off my robes, I rise off the ground, holding a wooden staff. "For the length of your years is a blessing denied all of the strongest men and women I have ever known. And what have you done with it? Gathered enough bitterness and cynicism to become a jester, laughing with your own misery."
"Keep laughing, old fool. Laugh until your throat gives out. For if I fail to become what I am destined to be, perhaps your laughter will save you in my place."
The old man scoffs into the dark. His flame burns low, heavy with grief, yet seething still with a deeper, unspoken injustice. "Oh, yeah? Don't you forget that this is my world, too. I can face its problems however I see fit."
"Just because I don't have the chops of your dear old grandmother," he pants, "doesn't mean I've lived this long for nothing. The whole procession hates you, kid. One of them won't even shut up about it. Just as much as we hate them. All these mercenaries, these steel men, and the saviors too... You all look the same to the rest of us."
He coughs, the sound scraping out of his chest. "Shepherds and wolves—it don't matter what you call yourselves, 'cause you all call us the same thing. We're just sheep in your little game of numbers. If the wolf kills ten today, you can bet your ass he'll be back tomorrow. And if the shepherd wakes up and finds three still breathing, he'll thank the Heavens he ain't out of work... or out of chances to prove himself."
He pauses, voice trembling with fatigue and contempt. "So let me ask you something, kid, before you let the big bad wolf eat me or mine. In the story I just told you, the wolf got away with ten, and the shepherd got left with three. How much is left for the sheep?"
I say nothing. The question in itself is foolish. Why should I care how much is left for them? The very fact of being alive to philosophize is more than enough proof of what's left.
A dry, splintered sound echoes off the cavern walls. An old man's cynicism bounces right back. "Looks like your granny didn't teach you this one. The answer is one, kid. Just one. The world didn't give him a staff to lead his brothers. And it didn't give him razor-sharp teeth to eat them alive. The only thing this world ever gave him was himself."
He draws a shaky breath, his voice lowering. "And one day, the same shepherd who protected him is gonna get hungry.
And it's the sheep that loves him most who'll follow him into the barn."
A pause. His flame flickers faintly, caught somewhere between defiance and despair.
"So tell me, kid... who do you think's got it worse? You, the mercenaries, or a sorry sack of wool like me?"
Peering toward the path from which we came, I catch movement — a shadow sliding between the stones. "Grace to your chattering," I mutter, "I failed to notice that the Eclipsant followed us into the cave."
The being of pitch-black glides into the chamber, its form bending the air, drinking the faintest of light as its form expands outward.
I steady my breath, then turn to him.
"Tell me, old man—who do you think has it worse? I, who must create a miracle this very moment to keep us alive… or you, who only has to sit back and be saved?"
The Eclipsant glides forward, soundless, and the air changes shape. The cavern's breath slows, drawn into its body, a vacuum of being that drinks the soul dry.
Behind me, the old man mutters a broken curse, the scrape of his toenails retreating until his back meets the wall. I feel his trembling. His fear. His disbelief.
The creature moves again. A smear of shadow pulling itself through the air. When it comes close enough, the warmth leaves my skin.
Then, a memory surfaces. The trembling of a small hand caught in another's, the scent of ash and lilies, and her voice, low and steady: "Do not fight darkness with strength, my lamb. Breathe it into you, and let the light choose what remains." I plant the base of the shepherd's crook against the stone and draw in breath.
I exhale, letting her words fill the space she once did. The air shifts. The crook grows lighter in my grip, its weight transferring into the ground, into the bones of the earth. Light begins to hum inside the wood — faint at first, then rising, alive, answering her teaching. "Be still," I whisper to the dark. It isn't.
The first strike comes fast — an arc of absence slicing toward my throat. I raise the crook. The air shatters where it meets, the sound like breaking bone submerged in water. My arms quake, but I hold. The staff hums, threads of light crawling along its length.
The Eclipsant recoils, then splits into many narrow forms, each flickering at the edge of sense. Their shapes circle me, cold winds brushing past my face, carrying whispers that sound like prayers said backward.
"Damn it, do something!" the old man cries.
"I am," I breathe.
I remember the silver bar in my other hand, thrumming with anger at the creature's presence. Cold as untouched moonlight, it thrums faintly, resonating with the divine pulse from the crook. When I touch it to the crook, the air snaps, and a sound like thunder ricochets through the cave.
The Eclipsant freezes.
I can feel its confusion, its hunger twisting into fear. The silver hums louder, pulling light from somewhere beyond me. For the first time, I sense the creature's form in full: a vast, hollow shape filled with thousands of faces pressed against the inside, screaming for some form of salvation. Screaming to be unmade.
"Return to your master," I say, my voice heavier than my own.
For a moment, the creature hesitates. I cannot see its eyes, yet I feel them burrowing into me, into every hidden fault and every doubt unconfessed. It's as though the void is searching for the light it was denied within me. The air tightens, the pressure pushing against my skull until I think it might split.
However, the creature tilts its head before shattering my mind.
Then, slowly, it begins to approach. The weight loosens as if some unseen chain has slackened. The breath of the cavern returns in fragments.
The crook burns white. I tap the ground again. The impact is silent; the result, anything but. Waves of breath travel through the ground from the epicenter. The darkness stops, looks at the ground, then back at me. I can almost see it frowning as the first wave washes over it.
Then the second. And the third. Each one diminishes its figure until it is little more than a speck. Then the final erases it from the face of the earth.
Heat erupts. The silver melts in my hand, its surface splitting into molten veins that snake across the crook like lightning. The scent of ash fills the air.
The Eclipsant is gone. In its place, the faintest shimmer remains, hovering like the echo of a prayer half-remembered. I lower the crook, chest heaving.
The old man stumbles forward, his voice a rasp. "You… you killed it."
"No," I say quietly. "It didn't come here to hurt us. It was only curious about what we were doing."
The words taste wrong the moment they leave my mouth. I can still feel the echo of its gaze on my soul, the way it lingered, patient and knowing.
"If it had wanted to extinguish our flames, it could have done so easily," I murmur. "This… this triumph was only possible through the work of the divine."
Though I say that with very little certainty. Is there a line in the text forbidding humans from using silver? It has been a while since I studied the scriptures. It would be the first thing I do upon returning home. For now, the silver bar cools in my palm, and I have no intent to discard it. It comes whole after pulling its fragments together from all over the cavern floor.
The silence that follows is heavy.
The crook still hums faintly in my hand, glowing faintly. Though clearly severed from its parent, it appears like any other plant life, drawing up breath through the roots.
Peering past the first oddity, I see fragments of light drifting beneath its surface. They pulsate at the rhythm of my breath, similar to those contained within the Eunuch's robe. However, unlike his, the characters inside the crook are not an aspect of some pinnacle of human craftsmanship.
The revelation sends a shiver up my spine.
Stronger than the hope in my heart is the weakness in my knees as I collapse to the ground, inspecting the thing before my eyes.
No matter how I look at it, the truth remains the same. The crook is now a part of me, owing to its staunch refusal to give up the tiny sliver of my soul I lent it during the confrontation. And more importantly, because I recognize the characters carved into its spirit. Those that have remained dormant for who knows how many years were written in my grandmother's handwriting.
I know the characters well, for they are mine.
The Shepherd's Crook of Solvanel.Choose with wisdom. Lead with patience. As if hearing my thoughts, the second line fades from the crook's surface the moment I finish reading it, leaving only the first behind. My eyes trace the characters of my name again and again, scores upon scores, and then some. Choose with wisdom. Lead with patience...
The words echo in my mind long after they vanish from the light. What could any of this mean? Perhaps Jonah would have an idea…
The contents of our last conversation are suddenly at the forefront of my mind.
The thought strikes like thunder through still water. The memory of his voice returns to me in fragments: his flame, his confession, his willingness to leave on his own. A cold unease settles in my chest. Something is wrong.
"We have to go," I tell the old man, already moving toward the tunnel. The passages twist and groan, alive with dripping water and distant echoes. The crook hums faintly at my side, guiding me through the dark. The old man's steps grow weaker with every stride, his coughing sharper, heavier. Then I hear him collapse. The sound of knees striking stone cuts through the silence like a cry.
I stop, breath caught halfway up my throat. For an instant, I almost keep walking. Every beat of my heart chants Jonah, Jonah, Jonah, a call that drowns out everything else. But the wet rasp of the old man's breathing drags me back to the day I saw that child face down in the sand. Choose with wisdom. Lead with patience...
Sheep are weak, unreliable creatures. Among all that walks or crawls, they are among the most trusting and the most foolish. They follow any hand that promises safety, even when it leads them straight to slaughter.
That is why, no matter where the shepherd must go, he should expect to look back from time to time. If only to make certain that none of his flock have strayed too far, or been swallowed by the dark between his steps.
It is not mercy that compels him, nor pride. It is a duty. The kind that threatens to split him down the middle as he chooses one over the other. The old man speaks, only a dry croak escaping his throat. "Ah, don't worry about me, kid. I'll catch up."
Every instinct screams to abandon him—to run—to reach Jonah before the wrongness in my chest becomes truth. But I cannot leave another one behind. I refuse to let that woman's death at my hands be for nothing.
"You won't," I growl, kneeling beside him. His hand is cold and trembling, reaching for a wall he cannot find—his pulse flutters weakly against my finger. I lift him onto my back, his weight crushing against my spine, his breath shallow against my ear. My knees threaten to give, but I push forward. Each step is a sin against my brother and a prayer to The Heavens. "Thanks, kid. Truth is, I can't die out here. I've got a little-"
"Stop talking," I find myself begging him. "Please." The tunnel widens, the air grows heavier, and the crook burns with pride in my grip. Each breath feels borrowed, drawn from a world that no longer wants me in it. The old man's weight presses harder with every step, his body slack, his coughs fading to shallow murmurs against my shoulder.
The path winds upward, carved by water and time. My feet scrape over the stone, slipping where moss drinks from the walls. The hum of the crook grows louder, guiding me, urging me onward like a heartbeat that is not my own. But it gives me no strength.
The forest receives me like a wound refusing to close. The crook's dim light trembles across the undergrowth, catching on roots slick with moss and leaves whispering underfoot. The old man groans now and then, each sound a weight pulling me further into the earth.
The air is colder here. Still. Too still.
Somewhere between the trees, I feel it—that same pressure that haunted the cavern. The probing gaze of a spectator that never left. The Eclipsant.
It lingers at the edges of thought, where the world blurs between sound and silence. I cannot see it, but its awareness brushes against me like a fingertip across the soul. The crook pulses once in warning, and every flame within me recoils. Branches crack in the distance. The air bends inward for a breath, then exhales. Nothing stirs.
Yet I know it is still there. The Eclipsant does not need eyes to see me, nor steps to follow. It is the space between my own breaths, the pause between heartbeats. Watching. Waiting. The crook burns hotter, its light bleeding between my fingers. I whisper a prayer, not for protection, but for restraint. That if it wants more than a human spectacle, it will at least allow me to reach the clearing first.
By the time I reach the clearing, it's already too late. The air tastes of blood and campfire smoke.
A dull rhythm shakes the earth—flesh striking steel, again and again. Wilhelm stands in the center, his great frame blotting out what's left of the moonlight. Beneath him lies Jonah.
As I reach into my pocket, there are thousands of eyes drilling into the back of my neck. A silent promise of death if I expose my grandmother's finger.
My brother's flame flickers weakly, rising and collapsing with each blow. His hands are bare, bones showing through the torn skin as he swings back at the armored giant. The strikes are wild, desperate, the kind of defiance that burns brighter the closer it comes to death.
"Think I care whose chain you've got around your neck?" Wilhelm snarls, his voice echoing across the clearing. He grabs Jonah by the hair and hauls him upright. "What happened to the big man who said he'd teach me a lesson? I thought you were a man, kid! Get up and show me a man!"
Jonah spits blood into his face. "You first."
The words are ragged but alive, a spark of the boy who once promised to protect me.
He swings again, his fist landing with the sound of bone snapping. Wilhelm doesn't even flinch. Mercenaries cheer in a loose circle.
The next hit sends Jonah crashing to the ground. The Backbreaker follows, one knee pressing into his chest, one hand crushing his throat. The light in my brother's body flares—wild, furious, beautiful—and for a moment, I think he might do it. I think he might win.
Then Wilhelm laughs. A low, grinding sound that turns the world to ash.
His gauntlet rises and falls in a steady rhythm, each strike heavier than the last. Flesh, bone, and breath break beneath the weight of man.
Jonah tries to speak, but the words come out as air. Still, his flame burns.
He drags one trembling hand up Wilhelm's chestplate, leaving streaks of blood that glow faintly in the darkness. "Go ahead, Wilhelm," he coughs. "Go ahead and kill me. But you don't know a thing about my little brother."
Another blow. "He's gonna make you regret this—I swear to you!"
Another blow that makes his inner flame flicker. "He's gonna kill you all!"
The last blow lands.
The forest goes still. The sound of impact hangs in the air long after it's done.
The men around them are silent, but the breeze howls all the same. Perhaps even harder. The eyes of the watcher are a silent threat. They keep me frozen in place while my brother's flame dwindles.
Wilhelm raises the gauntlet he stole from my grandfather.
His comrades cheer.
The sheep say nothing.
Only when Jonah's flame goes out does the Eclipsant retreat back into the forest.
Cheers turn into yawns, then snores from inside a pavilion.
Somewhere in a forest, where a flock weeps in captivity, there lies a brother who has a habit of leaving my sight. He makes me wait for his return, that mischievous rascal. But tonight, I will go out into the world and find him. Fleet-footed as he is, I haven't a clue where to begin. The world is clearing under an empty sky.
Tonight, I search the world on my hands and knees. I drag my palms against the ground so I don't miss a spot. I drag my palms across the ground until they spill red upon the weeds. The world is a ringing in the ear on a moonlit night.
Hours in, and this brother of mine still evades my capture.
How can one man search the world all on his own? The clearing is so vast and so endless, and the trees are so distracting and free. I only want to hold him one last time. I ask The Heavens to let me hold my brother one last time.
I reach around blindly in the darkness a thousand last times.
My brother evades my hand every single time.
An old man's hand weighs down on my shoulder. "They took the lanterns inside, kid. There ain't a flame out here for me, either. Come on, let's get some sleep. It'll be easier in the morning."
"No," I whisper. "I'm the only one who knows it. He might act strong, but Jonah's the biggest coward of all. He wasn't sleeping under my bed to protect me; he was there because he's afraid of the dark."
One day, I begged the Heavens to strike my brother down. I meant it only as a joke, but their sense of humor is far greater than mine.
The worst thing in life isn't silence in response to your prayers. It's being granted too much of what you asked for. Unbeknownst to me, the woman who was weeping in my bed so many nights ago was my mother. She thought I would have been fast asleep from the ritual of existence. Thinking back to it, I did pray for the heavens to bring her suffering to an end.
She was found hanging in the swamp by morn.