Author: CJ Burrow

The woodlands of the surface were not dissimilar to their own Forest of Generation, pillars of wood marking the land and parting the sky in a way that was reminiscent of the energy fissures of home.

Where their Forest produced more and more of their kind by the day, this one produced ephemeral bodies of living matter, and though they could not be more different beings, the lands shared a recognisably similar function.

As far as Trilorn was concerned, that was where the similarities stopped. The mortal realm, with its rudimentary emphasis on the tangible, its restrictive need for physical constraints, could never compare to their ever-shifting hollow in the space below reality.

Still, they supposed they could appreciate the rich green leaves and the sharp tang of wet earth on their senses. The simplicity of it all was oddly refreshing, not that they’d ever admit it.

I called on old threads, the sensation of joy and care still clinging to the plant itself even after so many millennia. I rethreaded them into protection, a means to defend myself from the words of others, weaving the charm into its eternal fabric.

Fabric that has now been torn.

I stare at the minor crack in the flower’s protective surface, uncertain of how it was damaged. Perhaps it will cause the petals to rot – death is persistent and it’s possible that the ravages of time might exploit the gap, finally laying claim to its lifeforce.

I head straight for my quarters, seal the entrance, and reform in a heap on the floor, panting heavily with exertion. I can still feel their words on my skin, the strings growing stronger as their discussion continues, carving the tethers deeper into my flesh.

Clearly I made a mistake when renewing my protective wards, their threads should not be able to touch me here. In fact, they should not have been able to affect me earlier either.

I pull back my coat and reach into the pocket concealed in the lining, pulling out my talisman.

At first glance, the flower remains encased in it’s crystalline sphere, looking just as it did on the day it first bloomed all those millennia ago.

Acara pinches the ridge between her dominant eyes, lids fluttering shut to match the other sets (which she rarely opens) as she sighs heavily.

“He’ll come around,” Taros says, placing a fore-hand on her shoulder. How sickening.

“And why, pray tell, should he?” I ask sharply. “I fail to see why she deserves protection from the consequences of her own actions.”

Taros shakes his head in disdain as Acara freezes beside him. “Don’t start, not now Ravello,” he snaps.

“He does kinda have a point,” Aurelia mumbles to my left and Acara’s eyes fly open in surprise, mouth slightly agape. I must admit, I too find it… unexpected.

(Continued)

I watch the potential threads light up as they stretch between us, one beginning to solidify as she raises her hands. I reach out to touch it, to sense what this binding would yield, just as Taros steps in front of me. The threads unravel and fade. What a pity.

“That’s enough!” he yells, forearms thrown wide, palms raised at each of us, though he looks pointedly at me. His lower set remain clenched at his sides, creating an arcing line of tension through his frame.

“Come on! It was just gettin’ interestin’!” Callista calls from where he’s reclining in an ornate chair, one he has obviously conjured at some point for his own comfort and grandeur. His feet are propped up on the table, eyes bouncing avidly between Acara and I.