I spent many a day and night with the rock salt pillar. Inside was the mind of a heretic, a villain who had been cast out of Atlantis for crimes greater than any mortal could fathom. I should have been repulsed by it, shunned its mad ramblings and distant thoughts, but by the Shining Towers of Apazil, I could not find disgust in my heart.

I did not feel pity; I was not so far removed from Atlantis that I had forgotten myself. At most I felt regret for myself, that I had come so close to another Atlantean — Oh! — only to find nothing but this eroding soul, a mockery of a companion.

In my lonely madness, I even tried speaking to it. I do not know why I tried; perhaps I imagined the process was not irreversible, that I could bring this heathen back to lucid thoughts. Surely, if any could, it would be I, master of the hammer, diplomat, and changer-of-minds. But no, such dreams were folly, and I soon quit my efforts.

Yet I did not quit my madness; the pillar remained beside my throne, and the whispers of the trapped soul came to my mind every day. I knew not if it soothed my mind or made my loneliness worse, but I was compelled. I turned away servant and petitioner for many a month, consumed with thoughts both terrible and divine.

Oh, how their words plagued me! To possess the love of the Ophidians was a darker curse than their hatred. Their poison was slow, eating away at their targets with unerring rot. They cursed not only those who wronged, but those who erred, those who mistook, and those who failed as well. Even those who committed no greater crime than to show mercy or charity to the undeserving were to be torn apart by the witches’ hexes.

I prayed they would find no cause to act without my word. I tempered my fury and ire with swift and just punishments, to spare the guilty a horrible fate. I corrected the innocent with hammer and word, and found my heart swollen sore with the every stroke. How easy it was to return to my place of glory atop a throne of gleaming brass! Where once I had thought the Isle of the Gorgons would be a place of solitude, now I sought to rebuild something of a kingdom of my own. Spurred by the fear of the witches’ passions, I sought to embody the promise of Atlantis, a place of light and music, as beautiful as it was terrible.

For many generations I toiled to polish the gray stones of the Isle, to return the luster of Atlantis to the world, but for all my efforts it was a mockery, a misshapen jest of an empire. The mortals knew it, too. I could feel the lies they told themselves, the pleasure they took from pretending that nothing had changed, that I was no less than the Indigo Empress herself. They praised their good fortune and privilege to serve, enjoying the fruits of my Empire that were the envy of Kings and Queens of the less-fortunate kingdoms.

Ordinarily, the evening meal in House Ashtree was a boisterous affair. Ashtree was a one of the larger farms in the Barony, with no fewer than forty men, women, and children. Each had a place at the longhouse table, and they all ate together when the day’s work was finished. Even when the day had been long and their muscles exhausted, there was always a story worth telling and laughter worth sharing.

Unlike the morning meal; which had three tiny courses of egg, butter-root cakes, and thick honeyed curd to provide energy for the day; the evening meal was longer, richer, and seasoned with good company. Roasted roots and grains were mashed into crispy cakes next to thick and chewy vegetables. Honeyed fruits garnished thin cuts of meat and bread. Nothing was served that took long to prepare, but all of it would insure a deep and restful sleep.

On the days that marked the changing of the seasons, a large paper-wrapped cheese was brought out at the end of the meal to much celebration, and everyone would share a hearty slice. The children would then be sent to bed while the adults would stay awake, pulling bottles of old wines and beers out of the pantries, sharing a drink and speaking with each other about the news between local families and rumors from the other Houses and farms.

I found for myself a lonely spot to live, a barren cliff overlooking the ink-black seas. There is a village of barbarians nearby; I thought it an amusement at best, but they have been strangely gentle and welcoming. Perhaps they remember the glory and grace that we could bestow on those worthy. Perhaps they remember our terrible fury. Whatever the reason, they do not hide from me as others have. Instead they bring me tribute in the form of minor gifts. A basket of sour food here, a shawl of rough silk there. They do not know how pitiful these offerings are, how much they burn my throat and skin. Their softest furs are scratching burrs and their sweetest fruits are acid compared to even the memory of what I lost.

Through their prayers they spoke to me, and so I learned of a child who sought me harm. Word of my survival had spread throughout the region, and the son of a barbarian general — who saw himself as a bit of a regional governor — wished to make a name for himself. The townsfolk didn’t know his plans, but the renown of one who slew an Atlantean would doubtlessly impress the locals, turning him into a God-General of everlasting name.

No matter. I was the only survivor of my people. He would find me very difficult to kill.

Drowning. There is nothing more terrifying, more soul-rending than the feeling of being in the midst of an endless dark, unable to breathe as you sink further and further away.

How piddling a word it was for the humans. ‘Drowning.’ They even had a different word for the same emotion; ‘Overwhelming.’ They used it like children, ignorant of the true breadth of horror such a word contained. They threw such words around without a care. ‘Starving.’ ‘Awe-struck.’

Lonely.

I know what it is to drown, to feel the weight of the world’s oceans crash down on not only your head, but the whole world. The humans would use words like ‘culture,’ ‘civilization,’ or ‘Empire’ to describe what had been lost. Small, useless words. The meanest words of my people are as birdsong to the clattering bones of human-speak.

I am the last of my people. I am lost. I am lonely. I am starving. I am drowning.

Mura’s father returned to the farm, not with a message, but with a man.

She had waited by the gate to the Ashtree farm every evening for a week, watching the road in hopes that her father would return soon with good news of their liege’s generosity. Her mother had admonished her for a fool, but Mura finished her work every day, so her mother could not call her undutiful. Sometimes her Uncle Oklan came to watch with her and talk, even though there wasn’t much to talk about. That is, except the one thing they didn’t want to talk about.

When she first saw the dust on the distant road, blown about by the Fourth World’s constant wind, she wasn’t sure she was seeing true. She stared for a few minutes until she was sure that there was indeed the dark shape of a horse and rider heading towards the farm. She ran to the farmhouse, calling her family to come and see. By the time she returned to the gate with her family in tow, there was no doubt; her father was coming home.

Jorgo opened his eyes.

The room was quiet. Clean. It reminded him of the medical dome in the Colony, but there was no clean white surfaces anywhere. Instead, the walls were rock and stone. The bed he lay on was soft and warm. and the air was perfumed with wildflowers.

“Brother,” the voice was warm and gentle, an echo from years ago. Jorgo turned to see Sika rising from the chair at the foot of his bed. She leaned over him, her face lined with worry, relief, and regret. “Brother, how are you feeling?”

Jorgo raised a shaky hand and gently poked and prodded his aching body. He felt numb, like the world had somehow gone gray and lifeless. Even the pain was distant, reaching to him from a body far removed from his actual self. He wanted to cry out in despair, but he couldn’t; even his despair was muted.

Jorgo stared at his reflection in the blade. He looked so different than he remembered. An awkward and sickly childhood had filled his memories with pale skin and sunken eyes, with matted hair and a weak back. Now, he felt stronger. Taller. More of a man than he’d ever been before.

The eyes that stared back at him were clean and bright, full of joy and focus. He grinned at the idea that this was the man his foes would be seeing, standing proud next to his family.

“They approach, love,” Karna’s voice broke through his dreaming. “We must be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he laughed, sheathing the curving sword at his side and turning to pluck his girl from off her feet, swinging her around in the air. “Let them come! There is nothing to fear from a bunch of rotten old lepers.”

Karna’s laugh mingled with his as she pressed her lips against his throat. “You are so brave and strong, my love, I hope you are right.”

The Eve’nbell rang out over the Ever Palace. All returned to their homes, save the Doorsmin, their eyes scanning every shadow, seeking out every corner, attentive in their holy duty to ensure that after Eve’nbell had rung, there was no one whose feet walked the pavement.

Tonight, his Indomitable Grace, Grand Duchen Karn Li-Schan, Warlord of House Li-Schan and Knight Commander of the Order of the Flank, would slip past them all.

Not because of any desire to flout the Eve’nbell’s curfew, goodness no. It had been a good many decades since youthful vigor and a prideful spirit had pushed Li-Schan out of doors during the night. No, now a veteran of over fifteen military campaigns, Li-Schan knew the importance of following orders, and of giving them as well. He knew that no matter how odd or inconsequential the curfew might be, there was cause, and it was his duty to follow. Even as a Grand Duchen and Warlord, he had to follow orders.

In fact, that was exactly why he would defy the curfew this night. He had been commanded, and he would not shirk his duty.

When Sika had finally finished her meal, the hum shifted again. “Now,” the monk spoke, “you are from the Colony of New Holden, yes? Why don’t you tell us what has caused you to brave such a difficult climb? We did not choose this mountain for its accessibility.”

“My father said it was because you didn’t want anyone from New Holden visiting you who did not need to,” Sika said through a mouth half-full of fowl flesh. She chewed quickly and swallowed a gulp of juice. “So you are not plagued with people begging you for help.”

The giant’s head twisted back and forth like a dog. “Your father is close to the truth of it. You must have a great need to have climbed so far…and a dark one, to seek us.”

Sika set the flagon down. She stared at the misshapen giant, watching as the skin-flaps of its face waved gently in the air like flower petals. In the span of mere minutes, the certainty she had felt while climbing the mountain had begun to show cracks of doubt. Twice she opened her mouth to speak, only to realize no words would come.