“Open your eyes, Reddus.”

The god smiled then, removing its hand from my shoulder as it stood. “Return to slumber, young one,” it said, its golden frame delineated in the door’s waning light, slowly stepping away, as its herald polygon decreased in form. My eyes bore a weight, and closed. “Farewell.” From whose mouth that utterance came, I knew not.

“Reddus, they’re waiting!” Someone is shaking my shoulders. My eyes flutter open to let in light, which is coming in from the windows, whose curtains have been raised. My gaze rises; descends from the cool, tan ceiling to the sunlight filtering in to the form of Octavia, who is standing betwixt view and myself with hands on her hips. Her ears twitch with impatience.

I yawn and stretch, nearly grazing her with my feathers. She steps out of the way and frowns. As I leave the bed, I am back to dayform, my plumage in full expression, my foot-talons concealed little by my dark boots. I blink rapidly, taking in Octavia’s more ornate shoes, which are light for travel, soft-soled. I smile broadly, allowing the flame in my eyes to flicker. She twitches her ears again.

“Reddus, they’ve been here since dawn. You’re the last one to wake.” She taps her foot, the miniature bells attached to the shoe jingling. “I really don’t know why you sleep like that.”

She is referring, of course, to my nightform. For one thing, it is much more comfortable lying back on horizontal bedding––even when it is of lesser avian down––than standing upright, or perched someplace. Granted, in nightform, my magic is dormant––but we were in times of peace. I wave my wings.

“Octavia, you cannot understand; your natural form is already suited for a proper sleeping position.” Emulus. Much more Celbrian-esque than mine. She snorts. “It’s just unnatural. Why sleep like an––” she pauses––“inferior kind. I don’t understand.” She gestures behind her to the door, or rather to the open aperture created by the door, which shows the hazy outlines of two Element’r, almost blurred by the bright sun, their scales glittering. Mareus and Basilia, our companions joining us today, as well as our means of transport to, the Olymagyc Games. “It takes a kind to know a kind,” I tell her. I clear my throat and trill, catching the Element’r’ attention; the low bwoosh of their wings beats the air in response. “And Yaek?”

“They’re right behind you.”

I crane my head back, twisting part of my neck to do so, to behold a rabbar peering up at me, its large eyes blinking forlornly. I laugh as it paws at the air with its clawed forefeet. I turn back to Octavia.

“I haven’t seen them in that form yet.”

She smiles then, etching a quirk into her mouth. “At least they won’t be able to blabber during the ride––isn’t that right, Yaek?” she says, glancing down at them. Yaek waves their long, furry ears in response.

“Let’s go then, if you’re ready.” She walks towards the door and outside, towards where Mareus and Basilia sit waiting. I follow, Yaek hopping in front of me, their sharp tail moving to and fro.

The shaft of light arcs through the air, striking its target with a resounding flash. The Celbrian that had raised its shield of polished brightwood is forced back some steps as the shield cracks, the jagged line of space visible from where I am perched. The Ligaeryen that cast the shaft raises his arms to the crowd, which roars its approval. The Celbrian, unfazed, casts aside the broken shield and hefts its sword, a moderately sized one fitting her build, and strides forward. Her opponent forms another shaft of light with his hands in preparation for casting another.

Octavia sits beside me, working on a sheath of elfgrass freshly acquired from one of the many prolar vendors distributing comestibles throughout the amphitheater. I myself do not partake of the Emulus delicacy and snack––its consistency is smooth, but not quite smooth enough for my beak. I much prefer a more ecumenical fare––I dip my head towards the tall cup of dragonspirit at the back of the tray held by the prolar in front of me. The vendor hands it to me with one arm and takes my coins with another. I extend my right wing and wrap it around the vase and sip. Ahhh. The soft flavor reminiscent of flying alone on a moonlit night seeps through my being. Element’r know their drinks for certain.

Mareus’ roar from behind me interrupts my reverie. I turn back to the Games––the Celbrian is lying on the sunbaked ground, a broken light shimmering over it, and the Ligaeryen stands beside it, a halo enfolding his body. I allow the Flames to radiate from my person, Octavia claps, and Yaek hops up and down to my right. “Where did Basilia go?” I ask Mareus, turning my head back to where he reclines on one of the many large Zarr-made beds scattered throughout the upper seats. The Element’r gazes back at me, his opal eyes framed with a vivid gold. “She’s hunting,” he growls, not in a fierce manner, but as Element’r do. “With some of the other Element’r.”

Oh, yes, I have forgotten that even Element’r require sustenance, as slow as their metabolism. Even the all-gratifying dragonspirit is inadequate for their stomachs, and as I scan the arena precincts, I catch sight of Element’r winging their way behind one of the towers.

I turn back to the arena below, upon which the next combatants––a lean Zarra wielding naught but a dustsword, a favored weapon by their people; a relatively small Element'r with very bright scales that gleam in the sunlight; and––and an Inmortalis. My own kind. A favored sight––a rare light, walking, flying, soaring. I looked to Octavia and she too was smiling at the contestants. Yaek was hopping higher than normal. A tendril of smoke crept into my vision as Mareus rumbled with pleasure. “You’ll see, Reddus, Emulae can overcome even the Zarrae’s regeneration,” Octavia boasted, and those sitting near us were also reacting well to the triad. I chuckled and was quick to respond before something akin to a forgotten memory or sight flickers into my mind and I hear her words. I pause.

“Octavia, I see no Emulus there.” The Zarra was pacing back and forth, bouncing from side to side, while the Element'r had flames licking its mouth, and the Inmortalis was bustling with a vivid flame. “Only a Zarra, an Element'r, and one of my own.”

“Reddus, what are you saying? That’s one of the Planqael, a sister clan to my Ranckai,” she said. “You can tell by his skin paint, although I guess it’s hard to identify from where we're sitting. You know Inmortali haven’t come to the Games in generations.” She looked at me, her ears wilting slightly in concern, a frown creasing her face. I looked back to the arena floor––they were fighting, the Inmortalis navigating the Element'r's own flames––and then I heard a soft curse from my right. I espied the speaker, a tall Ab’maluk cloaked in deep black, in its original shape––another rare sight––a murky shadow making up its head. It turned to look at me and said, “We Ab’malukae forgo participation in this segment of the Games. Clear your vision, Inmortalis, and see what that really is.”

Before I could ask for clarification, an utterance of surprise fills the stadium. I look back down and see the––or what was––the Inmortalis vanishing in a pillar of blue fire, and a Blueform Magycal taking its place. It sweeps back its cloak and bows several times for each portion of the audience, and Octavia curses also in her language. “The clever bastard, made us all think we were looking at one of our own,” she says. I realize that to each person in the entire arena, the Magycal had appeared as one of their race. I cannot deny the meager jealousy in my heart––the Magycalae are each and to their own full embodiments of what in essence sets us apart, magical ability, each with an immeasurable pool of magic with which to enact their will. What I or Yaek or Mareus, or even Octavia, can do, is but a silhouette of their power.

To cast such an individualized illusion on an audience of thousands was but routine to them.

I sip my dragonspirit but its taste is lost. The mood of the crowd has diminished given the Magycal’s clear dominance. The Zarra is burning in the blue fire, its distant form reshaping itself in a poor mimesis of my own character. The Element’r is spewing poor flames in every which direction. The Magycal, Blueform and formless, is enjoying globules of blue fire that spin around it.

A low uproar is becoming louder. To my northeast is a section of seats populated by Celibra and they are decrying the Magycal. I am overcome with guilt, noting their antagonistic response. The Celibra, alone of all the races, do not possess magic. The Magycal does not seem to acknowledge their cries, which only grow louder. Octavia tenses beside me.

The Zarra and Element’r stand up and back away, defeat characterizing their stances. The Magycal, its blue shape glowing, follows them as they leave the arena. The tall Ab’maluk to my right is silent, as well as much of the non-Celbrian crowd, as the cries continue unabated. “They’re used to this; they shouldn’t be upset,” comes Octavia’s voice in a low murmur, and Mareus rumbles in agreement. Yaek is still except for their ears, which twitch this way and that. I look around the vast circle of seats, my gaze passing over the group of Celibra as they continue to shout and clamor.

Soon the next group of combatants comes onto the field, after some seconds which pass like days. An Emulus, another Element’r, and a Celbrian––but its hands are burning with light, so it must be Ligaeryen. So no Celbrian. They take their stances against their background of derision. Mareus growls again, aggressively this time, and my heart beats its usual fiery warmth somewhat chilled.

Suddenly with a bright resounding pop that resembles a clap of thunder, some figures dressed in flamboyant clothing appear amidst the non-Celbrian contestants. The three about to fight take some steps back. Ah, the Gamelords––the committee consisting of one representative from each race that manages and organizes the Games every four years. There are eight of them, and each is garbed in one of the colors of the rainbow.

One of the figures, donning all white––the Gamelords’ Magycal––steps forward, one in front of seven. It claps its hands and speaks, its voice amplified by magic, as it addresses the Celbrian crowd. Their voices quiet.

“I must apologize on behalf of my race… We, the Gamelords––” it sweeps its arm back to include the seven others, one of which is a Celbrian––“will make sure to reprimand the contestant personally.” The Celbrians murmur their approval. “Furthermore, to show our sincerest regret for their actions, the contestant will forfeit their win. Let the Score be thus changed.” It steps back to join the others, forming a perfect semicircle, which sparkles, shimmers, and smoothly disappears. Something resembling disappointment fills my chest.

The Score wasn’t to be revealed until the end.

Nothing had changed.

The Celbrians appeared to have quieted down, some sparse seeds of discontentment spread throughout still, and the Flames within me were stirring. “Those Celbrians are at fault,” I said. “They disrupted our festive pleasure.” I turned to Octavia, who, to my surprise, is looking at me with some shock. “That Magy’cal just showed us some magic. That’s all,” I said.

She turns her face away. She nodded. “You’re right, Reddus,” she affirmed, squaring her shoulders. “Just because you don’t have magic doesn’t mean you should taint the Olymagyc Games for everyone. I mean, you came, right?”

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“She’s right, Yaek,” Mareus replied, as the Ab’maluk in a rabbar’s body shakes its head. “All races are created equal, regardless of magic.” Somebody to my right is speaking but it was slurred, incomprehensible.

“Let’s continue watching the games everyone, allies, friends,” I confirmed. I continued to drink from the dragonspirit as the next cohort of contestants came to clash.

I am flying.

No friendly companion wings his or her way beside me, not that I would have preferred it. I know no fellow Inmortali as well as I do those I call “friend," Octavia and Mareus and Yaek being some. My race is the fewest of them all, and those I do call friend are far and few between.

My thoughts alight on Yaek. After we returned from the Games, he fell ill; being an Ab’maluk, he had to do the rare thing and leave his transient host body. Octavia would watch over him, she said. I have little concern, as Ab’malukae, when it comes to bodily disease, are the least susceptible. I worry not.

In the distance, clouds hang in their grey masses. I look below me and see the town of Equitas, its small roofs and chimneys standing out like the backs of Element’r; it is peaceful and silent. The wind is blowing around me, binding me gently. The moon––it too is hanging, a hazy sphere, the one thing in these skies that remains superior to my position. By its light, I can make out my own home, a dark chestnut among the many residences below. I turn in for a steep dive, reveling in the swoosh that fills my ears.

I tuck in my wings as I land, causing gusts of wind to fan out the grass. One of my neighbors, a Ligaeryen named Iedalus, is awake and sitting on his own home’s roof. He sees me and smiles. He gets up and descends to the ground lightly, walking over, extending his hand.

“Had a nice flight, Reddus?”

I am entering nightform, my external features approaching his––approaching that of a Celbrian. I take his hand and shake it with my own. “Tranquil,” I reply. “How go your daily meditations?”

Iedalus’ form glows with an inner warmth; in the night’s dimness, the slight golden aura permeates his chest. “Even in night, the photons’ speech is a pleasure to hear.”

What he calls the miniscule beings that reside within light. “I’m glad to hear that.” I make my way towards my own home, a tall brown stucco with both a door for the ground and a hatch above for flying in. “What news?” I ask, expecting the usual “Pax Magycana” for our times of peace.

“Reddus.” But departed is the light tone, replaced by something more… tainted.

I turn back, a cold warmth trickling down my heart.

“The Ab’malukae in Equitas have fallen ill.” It flares, chilling me again.

“It’s not the mad sickness, is it?” I ask. After the Games some Ab’malukae had decried the Gamelords’ practices––nothing too unusual, as it happened every time––but this time directly criticizing, almost slandering, the Magy’cal representative, for “influencing crowd opinion” or something of the like. It was true that they were the race least vulnerable to the Magycalae’s magic––but magic is a part of us, of all of us. The Celbrians excluded. So everyone assumed that the poor Ab’malukae had caught the mad sickness.

“Perhaps.” His smile is still warm.

I return it hesitantly, and start to turn once more before he drops it like a bolt of lightning. “It is possible… it is unlikely, given the lack of reason.”

“Iedalus, what darkens you?”

“The Magycalae have always possessed a great amount of magic, far superior to any other race. They could be affecting our minds…” He pauses, frowning. “I am tired, Reddus. The night is troubling my thoughts.” He turns and walks away back into his house. The shadows coalesce to fill the space where he had been.

If it was the mad sickness, it would go away on its own. I had nothing to worry about.

I too enter my home to sleep. In nightform, like a Celbrian.

The thought gives me uneasy dreams.

I am blessed.

The thought overtook me as I was jolted back awake by Yaek’s prodding my back. They were now possessing a merccuban, its appalling form belying its natural playfulness, slapping the floor of my home as a lesser fish would do. They were clearly happy––filled like water with pleasure––and completely recovered. Sane enough to inhabit a host creature, at least.

Octavia cast down the next card, a Joker, on top of the pile which formed the center of our haphazard circle. Am I in dayform or nightform? I briefly wonder, and some ridges formed the mountainous left side, both Mareus and Basilia, snorting with amusement, dire flames clawing at the air. “It’s your turn, Reddus,” Octavia said. I trilled in response, prompting a genuine smile, and looked down at my hand.

Blood rings make splotches on the cards, a pair of Jokers and a Mage.

I played the Joker on top of Octavia’s. Comic pair. Mareus’ turn was skipped. Basilia played a Joker to fabricate a comic trio, and it was back to the Emulus, who is collapsed, her slender form almost contorted. Yaek was laughing, its gills making bubbling frothing noises. Clouds are surrounding the Element’r. I was in dayform.

A silky red liquid is dripping from the Emulus’ mouth. I am blessed, the thought making an almost comic entrance again, as I frowned. The Ab’maluk is not poking me anymore. I try to focus and barely make out some large carcasses, dead some hours, covered with unwieldy spines and slathered with scales. Two of them, Element’r. Something black is affecting my vision… a merccuban’s scale slides onto the slick floor. It is now a congealing scarlet, although some specks of black are in it.

I get up, shaking off the black things from my feathers.

I need to find Iedalus.

I stumble as I leave my home.

I fly through the smoke that fills Equitas.

He is not sitting on his roof.

I knock on his door.

No one answers.

I kick the door in with my boot.

Darkness fills the room, uncharacteristic of the usual light that pervaded it through the many windows and its resident’s own warmth. The sun is shining outside but even so, a sordid gloom is redolent, and the lone chair holds a despondent Ligaeryen. Iedalus.

He looks up at me, his face wan.

“Reddus––you’re alive.”

I shake my wings up and down.

“These are dark times, old friend. Most of our friends––” He pauses. “They’re dead.”

I feel a cold flame seize my body.

“Our souls are tried, Reddus. Those cursed Magycalae––no Celbrians have been affected.” I gape. My thoughts flutter, remembering the Olymagyc Games and the incident that had occurred. “Octavia––Yaek––Basilia––Mareus. All dead?”

All dead. I barely try to remember the scene of the cards. Two enormous carcasses, Element’r-scaled, one taloned arm still gripping a card. A flippered merccuban slapping the reddened floor weakly. Octavia, prone and silent, not smiling her genuine or, far more often, just a twitch of her mouth.

It has to be a dream––I turn my head back, towards the direction of my home. Where we had been playing the cards, the most ancient game. They were in there––Octavia, Yaek, Basilia and Mareus. I could fly back in there––and find two enormous carcasses, Element’r-scaled. A dead merccuban playing host to an Ab’maluk. A dead Emulus. Four dead friends at cards.

I try looking back up at Iedalus, but turn my head back down to the floor of his home. My beak quivers and my wings shake and more of the hideous black things fall from my feathers.

I stand there a few minutes, and I cannot bear to look at my friend.

Some minutes later, I look back up at my friend.

“Where are the Magycalae of Equitas?” I ask. “The Celbrians?”

Iedalus shakes his head. “I don’t know. The Magycalae have long departed. The Celbrians remain, looking for survivors.”

Looking for survivors. I almost laugh. The sound that boils forth resembles what, I know not, but something cold and ethereal and steaming little. I sink to the floor. A burning thought engulfs all else in my mind.

“Iedalus––it’s magic.”

He looks back at me. A deep shade is his eyes, devoid of light, encased in shadow.

I am cursed. The thought gives me despair.

The world is chaos. No fire burns in my heart. I feel cold. Equitas, our home that had been birthed in Pax Magycana, is desolate. The few residents not Celbrian or Magycalae left had been stricken by the mad sickness, or something else more sinister. We of the essence of magic, who had lived with it, as natural as our blood shone red in the waning light, now curse it. It and the Magycalae who had surely caused this catastrophe and those survivors who spent their nights killing. Enacting a sorry justice on the Celbrians whom they also blamed, strewn on the grounds everywhere, limbs split apart, scapegoats for the elusive Magycalae which were nowhere to be seen. I myself did not participate. Blood on my wings was a sickening sight.

As empty as my days were, I could only stare at walls––those few that remained standing amongst wreckage––and form my own conclusions. Perhaps it was my mind’s means of finding solace in a friendless world, for Iedalus had been taken away, vanished into nothingness with the touch of a Magycal’s hand some nights ago. The first I had seen since the Moment, my mind’s––and other’s––label for the day of first realization of death of emergence from the illusion. It was a Redform, its form shimmering bright, as it moved about the dead town touching survivors and making them vanish. Where they were sent, or whether they were dead, obliterated, into nothingness by the Magycal’s power, I knew not. I hid, plastered in nightform to a standing wall serving as a meager bastion of protection. The villains they were for no Celbrian was touched, no Celbrian had been killed by the black poison; only those of magic were betrayed. Only in nightform could I feign being a Celbrian myself, the race I had emulated as diversion, an act that now only gives me great regret. They, too, were victims now. A Redform stepped out from around the corner.

It looked at me––we exchanged glances. It raised its ochre appendage towards me––I cringe––of course, as nightform is a magical act, its guise was nothing for the Magycal––

“You there, Inmortalis.”

I am frozen––

“Release your nightform. What is your name?”

I can only revert to my feathered self, shaking, and answer, “Reddus Neralt.”

The Redform shook what resembled a head. “No, it was your name. I, Redform Magy’cal #42, now recognize the aid you will give our kind in the future. As such, your name is now Render, and you will behold the new time to come.” The Magy’cal before me then resolves itself into a figure cloaked in black, with a beak mocking my own. I cry out. An intense pain is in my eyes. I cannot open them, and I feel my body changing, past desire being sublimated into present force to serve a distant future. I cannot open my eyes. But I know that when I do, I will look upon the hands of a human, and not the wings of a phoenix.

END OF ACT II