I just regret we were of little use to you,” Salish said while Vincent tackled the shell in front of him, the smell was making him ravenous. “The masters and I, I mean. We were desperately trying to find out what Ayrlon’s light meant. The High Channeler took most of us by surprise by announcing your presence. When I proposed your...the uh...Saedharu's arrival, I never expected anybody to take it seriously. The Lore of Contradictions, by its very nature, makes firm postulations a nebulous pursuit at best.”

“Because the stories keep portraying the Saedharu as both a villain and a hero?” Vincent asked, trying not to get stabbed by the urchin's spines as he attempted to pry it open. “They contradict?”

“Exactly,” Salish said, “it is not unusual for witnesses to the same events to have differing perspectives on the figures involved. For example, some cultures in Northern Admoran view Lokan Haras as a tyrant who conquered their lands and stole from them, while the slaves who were freed by his actions viewed him as the champion who liberated them. What makes the Saedharu different is how, in many of the most detailed 'accounts', its actions both saved and doomed at the same time.”

Salish picked up one of the boiled urchins from the platter. “One story,” he continued while rolling the shell in his fingers, “proposes that an unfathomable evil plagued the world, released by an unkillable tyrant. The Paradox Incarnate, tired of the cries of Falius, unleashed a devastating power upon this despot by uttering a single word. In doing so it conquered the tyrant, but it also brought about a catastrophe so harrowing, it rendered Admoran uninhabitable for centuries.”

Vincent nodded and listened, saying nothing. He fought with the urchin, his claws slipping on its shell. He didn’t know why Salish gravitated toward discussion of the Saedharu.

“In another story, vaguer than the first.” Salish popped open the shell and scooped out the ball of meat inside. “The Saedharu reveals a much-needed truth to the people. But this truth causes schisms, divisions that break out into devastating wars.”

“And what truth is that?” Vincent asked. His tone was one of disinterest.

“The stories never say,” Salish said, “there are many stories that seem to follow this tradition of contradictions, actions which are simultaneously good and bad. Some of them are written as personal accounts, some claiming to have origins in seers and oracles. Others are creative writings, weaving fantasy from the elusive character. Then there are the fables which...well, they’re little more than childrens' stories that alternate between portraying the Paradox as a champion who will protect them, and as a monster who will come for them at night.”

“Fascinating, can you tell me what I am doing wrong?” Vincent set the urchin on the platter.

“Wrong? Oh! Uh...you must 'finesse' it first,” Salish said, “brush the spines off and roll the sides in your palms until the segments loosen. Then you pry it open. Be careful about the steam. They stay hot for a long time.”

The tuhli had already pried open two of the baseball sized shells from the pile in the middle, his platter was covered in black needles and steaming urchin meat. Though the image bordered on grotesqueness, the smell made Vincent rabid with hunger. It reminded him of lemon butter, dill, bay leaves, and salmon, along with several other fragrant spices. He placed his hand on the top and emulated Salish's motion of “sweeping” the needles. They broke easily under his fingers. He rolled the shell in his palms until he felt the segments give way, then he was able to pry it apart.

According to Salish, the urchin meat had been removed, ground up, partially smoked, then pureed with a blend of spices and injected back into the shell, which had been sealed shut with a form of edible resin. Then it was boiled in water which had been infused with an herb called “rolisint”. It sounded unnecessarily complicated, but the taste was phenomenal.

“Oh man,” he whispered, “they don't have urchins like this on Earth. You said this was Meldohv's signature dish?”

“Signature dish?” Salish repeated, reaching for something to take notes on.

“It's what they're known for?”

“Ah...yes. Nobody knows for certain who was the first to create the recipe, but the most plausible hypothesis proposes that Captain Rict of Alatha was the first to pioneer the technique of preparing the urchin inside the shell. He claimed that he was marooned on an island with nothing to eat but urchins and the wild fruits which grew there. By the time he was rescued, he had created both the technique and the recipe.”

Vincent scraped the inside of the shell and scooped some into his mouth, savoring the exquisite taste. Then he began to shake his head and grin.

“What?” Salish asked.

“Nothing, it’s just...it’s not bad. Not bad at all.” Vincent sucked the juices off his fingers. “I have...a lot of questions, all the time, everywhere I look. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“I can try to answer any the best I can.” Salish perked up.

“I’m just thinking about your diet right now. It confuses the heck out of me. We...my people, human beings, we’re omnivores. But I don’t understand why you people are too when you clearly evolved from carnivores. You eat meat, but you also bake bread and eat produce even though your teeth are designed for tearing.”

Salish seemed confused, almost disappointed by the question. Clearly, he was expecting something more interesting.

Vincent saw the expression on his face. “Hey man, that’s just the kind of stuff I think about.”

“Well...it’s been pondered,” Salish said, “but not studied extensively. As far as I know, we just eat what we eat.”

“Really? I thought–” Vincent swore as he pricked himself with a spine. “–I thought you guys would want to know how you evolved, where you came from. You could probably learn a lot about yourselves.”

“Evolved?” Salish repeated.

“Have you got something to write on?” Vincent asked.

“I do.” Salish pulled out a small roll of ohnite. “How big do you want?”

“Just give me a small piece...yeah, that’s good.” Vincent pushed his platter out of the way as Salish handed him the ohnite and a piece of charcoal. He spent a minute or two sketching out a series of skulls.

“So I can’t draw for shit with these hands,” he said, “but these are supposed to be human skulls.” He turned the ohnite around so Salish could see them. “The one on the right is what the average human skull looks like. But if you go back in time, you see that the shape has changed over millennia. My ancestors had more pronounced jawlines and eyebrows. But the general shape remained the same. It takes thousands and thousands of years for a species to change, but we call that process ‘evolution’.”

Salish took the ohnite, a look of fascination passed over his eyes.

“Here’s how evolution works,” Vincent continued, “a species picks up traits that help it survive. For example, predators have sharp teeth because it helps them hunt and kill. Herbivores have square teeth because it helps them chew plants. Those who aren’t born with these traits die out. It’s survival of the fittest. Nature filters out disadvantageous mutations. The species alive today, they all look mostly the same. Like...I could look at a wolf, and it’ll look like almost any other wolf. The fur could be different colors, the snout structure could vary a bit, but they’ll have the same general shape and features. Two ears, a snout, four legs and a tail. They all look like this because that combination of traits is what allowed their species to survive.”

Vincent took a moment to drink some water before he continued. “So, what in the hell happened with your people?” he asked, “that’s what I was saying earlier, why do you all vary so much? Some of you have manes, some of you have fins on your faces, others have fleshy whiskers. You have the teeth of carnivores, yet you act like omnivores. Some of you look so different, it’s like you’re different species. I saw a guy in Teramin who looked like a wolf with wings. It’s wild!”

Salish repeated the word “wolf” to himself, clearly unfamiliar with the word.

“If I were you,” Vincent said, “I’d want to know how you retained all of these traits. That kind of genetic diversity does not happen on Earth.”

“The calamities make that difficult,” Salish said, “a lot of our history is lost and scattered.”

Vincent opened his mouth and shut it. He took a few moments to chew on his words. As he did this, he noticed a Falian toddler looking at him from one table over. Curious blue eyes peeked over the wing she had in her mouth. When she saw him looking at her, she ducked behind the wing.

“May I ask about your path?” Salish asked.

“My ‘path’?” Vincent repeated.

“You said you were a student before you came here.”

“Oh, yeah. I was,” Vincent said, “I want to be an electrical engineer. That’s what I was studying to be.”

“What is that?”

“I was just explaining this to Thal’rin the other night. You remember the dehumidifier?” Vincent asked, “how it’s powered by electricity? That’s what powers a lot of our devices. I wanted to design this kind of stuff. There’s so much cool shit you could do if you have the knowledge, and you know how to apply it. That’s what engineers do.”

“So, it’s like an aluntai?” Salish said, “You want to be a craftsman?”

“What? No,” Vincent said, “your conduits are cool as heck and I want to go to a shop that sells some after we’re done here, but no. I don’t want to be a craftsman.” Vincent clicked his fingers, trying to find a way to demonstrate what engineers do. “Okay, so aluntai,” he continued. “do they make all their own conduits by themselves?”

“They usually have two or three apprentices helping them,” Salish said, “And we are talking about artificial conduits, right?”

“Yeah. Artificial conduits,” Vincent said, “okay, so. Let’s say I wanted to be a ‘conduit engineer’. The thing that would separate me from a craftsman is...well, I would do the following: I would learn how to build a conduit. I would learn the properties of whatever materials you use to make them. Using that knowledge, I would try to invent a process where I could build conduits that work in conjunction with each other to build more conduits. Instead of relying on years of training new apprentices, I would automate the process. I would build a machine whose sole purpose is to make massive amounts of conduits over a short period of time.”

Vincent noticed the little girl was peeking at him again. Her parents didn’t seem to notice. They were too busy arguing about something.

“Some aluntai are trying to do that, actually,” Salish said.

“Well, there you go. That’s just one of many things an engineer can do.”

Vincent waited for Salish to finish writing down everything he said. Meanwhile, the little girl kept gawking at him. When he looked her way, she ducked under her wing for a second time. Vincent turned back toward Salish and waited until he saw the child raise her snout in his periphery. When she did, he snapped his head toward her. She squeaked and ducked under her wing for a third time. Confused, Salish looked up.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Oh, there’s a kid over there who keeps staring at me. Whenever I look at her, she keeps hiding behind her wing,” Vincent said, “I think she’s trying to play a game. Hold on...”

Vincent grabbed his own wing and hid behind it. He waited for a few seconds before raising his snout and cautiously peaking over it. When he saw the girl looking at him, he ducked back under it. He heard a little giggle. He checked to see if she was there several more times, each time coming out from behind a different part of the wing before immediately ducking for cover. His antics entertained the child. But then her parents got up and took her with them. They were still arguing.

“Children usually like channelers,” Salish said, “it’s the eyes, I think.”

“Of course...glowing eyes. I can see kids liking that.”

Slade had not joined them in their conversation. Instead, she stood a distance away, surveilling the court. She had been doing that for some time now, watching the channelers who wandered about. Her vigilance was contagious at times and Vincent found himself drifting away from the conversation to watch them too. But he and Salish continued to go back and forth. Vincent quickly discovered he was shit at explaining concepts. Whenever he tried to explain what a computer was, it spawned twenty more questions.

The more Vincent talked about his major, the more he was reminded of what he had to lose. Every second in Falius was a threat to his livelihood. It was stealing it from him, sapping away his identity. Even his flesh reflected a lie. He couldn’t even play a damn guitar. The pebble in his gut grew a little heavier.

“None of that’s going to happen the longer I stay here,” he said, “I’m stuck in this world. This isn’t logical, it’s not rational. Prophecies don’t...I mean where in the heck do people come up with this stuff?”

And like that, his mind drifted back to Orth’s revelation: He was trapped here. Meldohv was beautiful and its sights were enchanting. But it felt like a snare.

“Well, the origin of the Paradox is almost impossible to pin,” Salish said, “one of the most fascinating aspects of the lore is that the word 'Saedharu', is what we refer to as an 'immortal' word.”

“How can a word be 'immortal?” Vincent asked as he used a stone spoon to scrape the insides of the urchin shell.

“Words change,” Salish explained, “as societies change, so do their languages. The pronunciations of their vocabulary, the meanings, the spellings, the accents all undergo gradual change due to time and trends. A traveler goes to a foreign land, learns a new word, mispronounces it, but because his dialect is not informed by that culture, will continue to mispronounce it. He passes this error down to his children, who pass it down to their children, whom all add more faults, more changes to the word. Several generations down, it has a whole new meaning entirely. Some words even vanish completely from use. This is not the case for the word 'Saedharu'. In all societies, even those that have never had any contact with each other, not only does each culture have their version of the Paradox, but they all refer to it as the 'Saedharu', and they all pronounce it the same way, with the exact same syllables.”

“But your people...I mean your generation, didn't live thousands of years ago,” Vincent said, already breaking into a third urchin. “How would they know how it was pronounced?”

“Because of the communities that broke off from these ancient civilizations and went into isolation, only to be rediscovered hundreds, sometimes thousands of years later,” Salish said, “they say 'Saedharu' in the exact same way that we do, without the slightest trace of an accent. This is one of the most fascinating things about the entire lore. Why should this figure, who has no traceable origins, or rather, too many possible origins to be traced, have a title that is remembered in its exact form throughout our history? Even by communities which were for the longest time, cut off from the rest of the world? And why do we know so little about such a prolific character? History treats it almost as if it treats a force of nature. Nobody knows where a hurricane comes from, how it forms, yet they all feel its impact.”

“Actually, I can explain a hurricane...sort of, but go ahead,” Vincent said, “sorry for the interruption.”

“Then there is the nature of the Saedharu,” Salish said, lowering his voice as an agitated zerok juvenile the size of a horse walked by, chuffing at something. “Very little physical description is given of the figure. Of those that do exist, the most common ones are the fables that describe the illuminations on your...I mean...on its body. But other than those, it is often described as an embodiment of contradictions in both appearance and in nature.”

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Vincent shook his head, “Whatever the hell that is supposed to mean.” Then, following Salish's lead, he lowered his voice as well. “Look...I can hardly stand to look at this thing in a mirror. I hate seeing it look back at me. It looks like a fucking joke.”

“Y-yet that very aspect of your appearance may be part of the contradiction,” Salish said, “yes, at first glance the appearance of your...uh...'vessel' is one of vulnerability and uh...silliness, I guess. But it is also immaculate. There is no blemish anywhere that I can see. The face is symmetrical, horns perfectly curved, and the hair, even though it was long, does not appear to fray.”

A tightness clenched at Vincent’s gut. “Y-yeah, I noticed that too. My sisters would be jealous.”

“But besides the technical flawlessness of the body you inhabit,” Salish continued, “your form has a...power to it that is hard to describe with words. It has...” He stopped for a moment, held his snout in his hand while his wing-claws tapped the table. “It has 'implications' of potential, I think. No...that is not right either. The features you wear are vulnerable, yet at the same time they have a severity to them that seems to hint at power. One of the masters said to me that you were beautiful.”

Vincent fell silent for a moment, shocked. Then he groaned. “I swear if one of your women tries to flirt with me or court me...it’s bad enough that Slade...ugh...”

“No...no, no, no!” Salish said, obviously flustered. “She did not mean it in that way. She meant...you were like a figure of mythology who stepped out of a painting. Your appearance seems to carry with it an aura of potential.”

“The 'charisma'.” Vincent was not sure he was liking the direction this conversation was taking. It made him very uneasy. His reptilian digits gripped and released the table repeatedly. Occasionally, a wing would drift and he would have to pull it back or push it away. A tinge of nausea flared for a moment. He didn’t want to talk about this.

“No, I mean...yes, you are a charismatic...I think,” Salish said, “but it is more than that. You are...” He clicked his fingers as he searched for the right words. “You are a creature of lore.”

“A creature of lore?” Vincent repeated. He went cold inside.

“Well...despite your uh...diminutive appearance,” Salish continued, seemingly oblivious to Vincent’s growing discomfort, “you have a strict...you have a strict dignity that feels as though it arises from some eldritch design.”

“What are you talking about?” Vincent demanded. He did not like the way Salish was talking about him, about the vessel he had been thrust into. Did Salish have a clue what had been done to him? Why was he saying these things? His words, oblivious and ignorant, were carving him open.

“–That is one of the many things we have been discussing.”

“Let’s change the subject...”

But Salish didn’t appear to hear him, he was caught up in his tangent. “–Though you have trouble controlling your body, there's a grace to your form. You–”

The world seemed to stop, and Salish's chatter faded into the backdrop of Meldohv's streets, blending together with the music and the cacophony of the metropolis. Though the sights and sounds tantalized Vincent's eyes and sent his imagination on fire, he felt a gradual pressure building on his chest, increasing by the second. A tinnitus settled on his ears, blocking out the conversation. The tuhli's mouth was moving, but Vincent could not understand a word the creature was saying, only that the more he spoke, the more his words became like knives. He heard the Stalker’s laughter in them.

Meldohv's colors distorted. Their contrast became harsh to the eyes. Every light source grew brighter and every shadow became like an abyss, hiding predators in its darkness. The city's jagged crystals stabbed the air like daggers, glinting with promises of impalement. The crystals became as spikes to his eyes, stingers dripping with venom.

“The truth is,” Salish continued, “you draw the eyes. Your form is silly, I guess, but graceful.”

There was a pain in Vincent's throat, an ache that clenched his esophagus. As the avian dragonoid in front of him continued to ramble, he found it was becoming harder to draw in enough air. His lungs were failing to absorb enough oxygen, causing him to become lightheaded until phosphenes twirled in his eyes. Confusion and shock rattled his brain as Salish's words resonated inside his skull. He parted his lips to ask a question, but the words did not come easily.

“W-what did you say...about dignity?” he whispered, swishing around the water inside of his mug. Intellectually, he knew what Salish was trying to say...but all he could focus on was that word. He was trapped in this world, in this body.

Salish stopped talking and cocked his head. “What?”

“...I asked what you said about dignity,” Vincent repeated, “and grace? My ‘form’...it's graceful?”

“Oh...I mean...there is a dignity about your form...but I find it hard to describe. Am I repeating myself?”

The beaker tipped over and its contents spilled across the table. Vincent fumbled for it, but he could not grasp it, his hand was trembling. He felt the world wrap itself around his chest. The air was growing thicker. The tuhli's mouth was moving, but he could not understand the vocalizations. Why would Salish say that? Why did he say any of it?

For a brief moment, the beautiful plaza they found themselves in was supplanted by darkness, a void in which limbless shapes thrashed. Something stabbed his chest and pumped venom into his cavities. It was a memory obscured by partial amnesia, but it was suffocating him, nonetheless. He recalled hints of torment, of bones breaking and reforming.

“Vincent,” Salish said, finally noticing something was off. “Are you...are you well?”

Nearby, some food vendors grabbed a creature, held it against a table and butchered it. Limbs flailed, knives glinted. A blade descended and appendages fell free. Vincent was finding it harder and harder to breathe.

“Do you...do you have any idea what it did to me?” Vincent muttered.

“Forgive me?” Salish asked, “what did you say?”

“Do you have any idea what that thing did to me when it took me from Earth?”

“It turned you into...into one of us.” There was hesitation in Salish’s voice.

The vendors plunged their knives into the creature’s carapace and pried it loose. It continued to thrash in agony. Vincent gripped the table and opened his mouth. His breath rushed between his teeth. He didn’t feel like he could breathe only through his nostrils anymore, he wasn’t getting enough air.

“I need to...I need to go...” He got to his feet, not knowing why. The world was spinning. He knocked the platter to the floor, the crash caused him to flinch. Salish also got to his feet.

“Vincent?” he said, “are you all right?”

“Get...get out of...”

“What’s going on?” Slade demanded, finally noticing something was wrong with Vincent. He couldn’t hear her, he couldn’t hear anything. All sounds were becoming a blur.

“I said get out of my way!” he shouted, shoving Salish. The tuhli stumbled, tripped over his own tail and fell to the ground. Vincent was gone before he even had a chance to get back on his feet. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he felt the compulsion to keep moving. He heard his name, but he couldn’t look back. He weaved briskly through a crowd of wings and horns, stopping short of running. He pushed creatures out of his way, ignored their curses. One grabbed him and pulled him aside.

“What’s the matter with you?” he said, “have you uncapped your rack?”

“Get the fuck out of my way!” Vincent threw the creature’s hand off and ran. He stumbled a few times before catching himself on a wall. Finally, he found a deserted alleyway and took it. He heard footsteps following behind and knew Slade and Salish were following. The alleyway came to a dead end. He was trapped. The phosphenes danced at the edge of his vision like tadpoles. They darted back and forth, accompanied by black spots. He had to get out...he had to get out, he couldn’t breathe. He leaned on the wall for support and removed his jacket. It was suffocating him.

Slade said his name several times, but he couldn’t answer. All he could do was hiss between clenched teeth and gasp for air. He needed to get a hold of himself. He needed to calm down. But he couldn’t do it. He saw threats in every shadow. His chest was tight, and his heart was hammering against his ribcage. He tried to clutch his chest, but he felt a keel bone under his palm. He wanted to scream.

“Vincent, what is going on?” Slade said, “what ails you?”

He was afraid to speak, afraid that somehow doing so would shatter the world. Words felt precarious, like landmines. But he forced himself to answer her.

“You...you need to let me be, Slade,” Vincent said, “I think I’m having a panic attack...”

“A panic attack?” Salish repeated.

“I am unfamiliar with the term,” Slade said, “do you require aid?”

“No...”

He closed his eyes and tried to take slow, deep breaths. But he kept thinking of Salish’s words. Dignity. Grace. He clutched his hoodie in his hands and held it close. Sweat poured down his snout and his arms shook. He heard Salish shift his feet. Suddenly enraged, Vincent felt an unhinged urge to strangle the tuhli. Instead, he threw the hoodie at him.

“Pick it up!” he shouted.

“W-what?”

“Are you fucking deaf?” Vincent snarled. He forced his words through a clenched maw. He picked the hoodie off the ground and thrust it into Salish’s hands. “Look at it! Look closely! See that white tag? Those stains? I was torn apart. That’s my blood! It...it kept me alive through the whole thing...it wouldn’t let me die...”

Salish avoided Vincent’s gaze and went silent.

“I didn’t know...” he finally said.

“That bitch who said this was dignified?” Vincent spat, “find a way to make her immortal. Chop her up into a bunch of pieces. See how she likes it!”

“Vincent–“

“–Get the fuck out of here!”

“But–“

“–Scram!” Vincent shoved Salish. Slade put a firm hand on his shoulder “Get the fuck off me!” he snarled.

“Salish, go.” Slade said. He nodded, took a few steps backward and left.

The panic began to leave Vincent. Taking its place was a tempest. His fear and rage were rising, and he could do nothing to halt the momentum. He’d been tortured and thrust into this world. He’d been arrested and dragged around like some animal. They tried him, aimed to prosecute him. Then they told him he was a figure of prophecy, told him he was trapped. Now these people told him that what happened to him was graceful. They looked at his form with admiration. He couldn’t hold anything, he was clumsy, his limbs disobeyed him. His flesh was a constant reminder of the hellish nightmare he’d been forced to endure, the transformation he underwent. Yet they praised it.

He wanted to hurt something, he wanted to hurt somebody. It was an itch he was dying to scratch. It didn’t matter who, he just wanted to fight back. He reached down deep inside and drew upon years of discipline. He used every technique available to calm the storm, to bring some modicum of control to his episode. One with his malfunction did not get as far as he did without exercising logic. He failed. He saw a clay vessel lying on the side of the alley and picked it up, ready to smash it into the wall, but Slade gripped his wrist.

“Do not,” she said.

She removed it from his hand and set it back on the ground. At that moment, murder flashed through his mind, and he wanted to run a knife into her gut. After all, she had hunted him like some fucking animal. He wanted so badly to repay the favor a hundredfold. Only the constriction in his chest stopped him from lashing out. A part of him, a very small part, knew that this violence arose from the tempest that clouded his mind. Now it was swelling. He stared at a drain in the ground, panting and gasping like a canine, wondering briefly how nice it would be to melt away and escape through it.

Slade sighed and leaned against the wall a few feet away from him. The rage and terror would not leave him. Like clingy animals, they sunk their claws into his chest and refused to let go. For fuck's sake, he was shaking. His bones became like matchsticks, unable to support the structure they were supposed to uphold. Vincent saw the Stalker's designs in their praise. They seemed to be mocking him. “There's a grace to your form...” No...he needed to calm the fuck down.

After a while, running footsteps came down the alleyway and he saw Salish jogging toward them. At first it looked like he was going to say something to Vincent, but instead he addressed Slade.

“Is he all right?” he asked. Slade simply shrugged. “Well...you should see this. The zerok...”

“Hmm?”

“The zerok. Something is happening. Hundreds of them are flying into the city! They are not projecting clearly, so I can’t understand what they are trying to say, but they are afraid.”

At this, Slade became alert.

“Vincent,” she said, “we must go.”

“I can't. Leave me alone, I have to calm down.”

“I will not. A frightened zerok is itself, a cause for concern. But there are many.”

Vincent could see that she would not let him stay and he wanted to stab her for it. Fuck these people. But he was finally able to breathe normally now.

“Fine,” he spat, “ladies first.”

When they returned to the plaza, everybody had stopped what they were doing and were staring at the sky, or rather, at the shell of Meldohv. The canopy was filled with hundreds of feathered forms flying in from the city's entrance like loose confetti blowing in the wind. There were frightened murmurings all around him. More of the feathered creatures poured in through the aperture near the back of the shell, showering the city like colored flakes inside a snow globe. It was both eerie and enchanting to watch. One soared so close to the ground, Vincent felt the wind brush against him.

More and more of Kyrotin's ilk flew into the city with frenetic urgency until the entire air was filled with the buffeting of wings and clacking of beaks. They seemed to pour through every opening in the vast shell. Then, there came the keening. It started as a loud series of throaty clicks that rang out over the city like the guttural utterings of Meldohv's death rattle. But the sound rapidly grew in both frequency and volume. It turned into a mechanical wail that yowled through the air from all directions.

Guards ran across the court, barking orders to all people to seek shelter. Vendors quickly poured water on their fires and abandoned their booths, parents scooped up their children and hefted them over their shoulders. A frightened young zerok the size of a heifer crashed into the ground flailing. Several guards ran over to calm it down and hoist it back up before the parent came along and sheltered it under its wing.

Paradox...

“Those are the screamers?” Salish hollered, “they have raised the storm screamers?!”

Paradox...Kiolai...look above. I am the one with purple feathers.

“What–” Vincent searched the busy canopy until he spotted a zerok with pale violet plumage circling high above, its eye focused on them both.

I am Kirlon, representative of mother Nextriix of Gullreach. There is no time to explain. Thal'rin wishes for the Paradox to be hidden before the storm hits. Kiolai, are you able to hide him with your lore? Or take him someplace discreet?

“What the hell is going on?!” Vincent hollered. It felt like the world was coming down on top of him.

“I cannot,” Slade muttered, “there are too many witnesses for my shade to take effect. And the alleys are too crowded.”

Then I must retrieve him. A dark storm approaches.

“No...” Vincent reached for one of the shryken on Slade's belt. But her arm snatched out and caught him as if by mere reflex.

“Vincent,” she said as Kirlon descended into a circular dive around them, “I do not understand Thal'rin's orders, but I presume they have to do with the way you reacted to the last storm.”

“We...we are inside a damn mountain!” he hollered as Kirlon landed on all fours, surrounded by a sea of rushing groundwalkers. “And you have the storm wards!” As he said this, he could sense a darkness coming in over Meldohv's entrance, occasional flickering sending the crystals into relief.

“Nevertheless...you must go with him.”

“Stay away!” Vincent shouted at Kirlon, taking a step back, the Stalker's limbs superimposed themselves over the creature’s beak. “Stay the hell away from me!”

I am sorry. Kirlon projected as he took careful steps through the frantic crowd, but you must be brought away from here.

Slade let go of him just as Kirlon bent down and clasped his massive beak around Vincent's torso. He smelled and felt the creature's rank breath wafting around his chest as it lifted him high up into the air, green eyes considering him between feathered features. Vincent's feet dangled helplessly above the ground like that of some marionette. The zerok turned around and sent out projections to the crowd, who looked at him with confusion. Then they began to clear a path for him to run. The void flashed before Vincent’s eyes again, the Stalker's domain...a thousand limbs flailed in the darkness, ensnaring him. Thrashing shapes flashed through his memory, echoes of snapping bones rang in his chest. The pain...it was too much to remember. He was helpless.

No!

Vincent had no idea what in the hell was going on, but he would get to have a say in this, he would get to decide what happens. He had had enough of Falius' games and manipulations. Deonte's words, spoken to him many years ago, came back to him: “You let them know who's boss.” Snarling and still fresh in the throes of panic, he reached over before the creature could launch, grasped the sides of Kirlon's temples, and dug both of the claws on his thumbs into the zerok's eyes.

Beautiful...dignity...eldritch design... Those words, they fueled his terror and rage, drove him to clench hard and to hold on even after Kirlon shrieked and unclasped his beak. If this was a dream, he was still lucid enough to fight. Adrenaline kept him hanging and allowed him to pull himself back up onto the beast's head and thrust his digits back into the Stalker's eyes. He would kill it if he could, he would tear out its goddamn brain.

Shadows began to pour over the city as the feathered abomination tossed its head, hurling Vincent left and right until the latter was thrown off. The world orbited him once before one of the merchant canopies caught him and collapsed around his body. He felt the canopy pitch under him, swinging him right until he crashed against several crates before proceeding to land with a softened thud against the cobbled road.

Stars and phosphenes danced their way across his vision as he fought to free himself from his cocoon of orange fabric. The claws on his appendages snagged holes and thwarted his struggle. No...it would not trap him, it would not. He tried to get up, but he was dazed and could not tell which way was up from down. He grabbed anything to use as a weapon, a pole used to hold up the canopy. A shadow fell over the fabric, turning it from orange to a dark red.

Jerking wildly, he tore his wings free from the snares in the canopy and crawled between a set of boxes, carrying the pole with him, stumbling as he walked. He was floundering. A part of his mind protested, he was still suffering from the panic attack. The other part, the part that was losing control of itself was telling him that this world wanted to fuck with him. But Salish didn't know any better, neither did that woman...but now they would. He would hammer the truth of things into their tiny lizard brains. Beautiful...I'll show them “beautiful”. I'll smash their fucking heads in. Stop...stop...get a hold of yourself you bipolar fuck! he tried to tell himself. He couldn't, he tried to, but he failed.

Slade's rapid footsteps approached the canopy and she called his name. As soon as she lifted the fabric, he thrust the pole right at her face. She caught it without effort and yanked it away.

“Vincent you will stop!” she commanded, “we are not your enemies!”

“The hell you aren't!” he snarled. Flickering lightning from the skylight above etched shadows on the cobblestone. “None of you...none of you...fuck all of you!”

“Do not make me do this,” Slade said.

“I am not making you do a damn thing!” his voice cracked, “I told you to leave me alone! That’s all I want! Leave me the hell alone! I didn't do anything to deserve all this!”

His words had power, he could see that. Yet he was still surprised when Slade let go of the post he had used as a weapon.

“So be it.” she said, “I will not make you go with Kirlon. I doubt he would have been able to take you anyway after what you did to him. But at the very least, we must find a discreet location. We do not know what will hap–”

Before she could finish, he found himself pitching to the ground and rolling onto his back. The canopy around him fluttered, revealing glimpses of the skylight above. It was covered in roiling darkness, a black void that yawned for him. Lightning flickered, revealing moiling clouds of ebony chaos. Then the world around him began to disappear. Earth began to materialize in its place until he was no longer lying against cobble, but standing on a beach, waves lapping at his feet.