Isha set her chin on her closed fist and stared out over the false horizon as the sun rose for the second time that day. The faceless and seemingly emotionless Byron stood at her shoulder, arms folded behind his back. For a moment, they once more looked like the otherworldly beings they were.

Gods to Talia’s ant.

Beautifully strange in an ethereal way that would spur the inspiration of a generation of artists.

It’s the stillness, I think. Normal people fidget, and scratch and shift. But they don’t. They’re stock-still. Like living statues.

Talia fought the urge to tap her fingers against the table, afraid any movement would break the moment. The green sun crept ever higher into the sky, its pace visible to the naked eye, otherworldly rays bouncing off marble-white walls and fluffy pink clouds. Streaks of light glinted off Isha’s horns, bringing with them a light wind that ruffled her diaphanous robes.

When it became clear that the Ancient was lost in thought, and that the oh-so-strange Byron wasn’t going to interrupt her, Talia began quietly jotting down questions. Answering Isha’s relentless inquiry had done nothing for Talia’s curiosity, offhand comments and mutterings generating more mysteries than they solved.

“I apologize, child. I was lost in thought,” Isha finally said softly, “Things are so much worse than I could have imagined.”

Talia bobbed her head.

“Took me a while to wrap my head around the idea,” Talia excused with a shrug, “The rest? Well, I grew up with it all, so I can’t relate.”

There was something in Isha’s eyes that Talia wasn’t quite sure she liked, but she struggled to put a name to it.

“It is an odd thing, isn’t it? To realize the world you know sits so precariously on the razor’s edge,” Isha mused knowingly. Wistfully.

Talia let out a dry bark.

“That’s one way to put it, sure.”

Isha steepled her hands, seeming to consider something for a moment before she snapped her fingers and leaned back in her chair.

“Right, enough of that. Byron and I will work on solutions while you recover, and we can discuss those at a later date, when something can actually be done,” the Ancient decided, “For now, I’m sure you have questions. You’ve been remarkably patient, but I can sense your curiosity. If you like, I can tell you the story of my time on this world and the circumstances that brought me to it. That should answer much, I think, then we can address more specific questions. Sound good to you?”

Talia’s gaze flicked down to the book in front of her —a faithful recreation of her journal— and the list of questions she’d taken down on it. There was so much she wanted to know.

The real reason the Ancients had led the sapients races below the Surface. Where they came from to begin with. If the Matriarch was right, and humans had been…created, then why? The Enigma, the Arcaneum, the arcano-suns, the Aberrant. So much more. It felt like the answer to every question she’d ever had about the world lay at her fingertips, begging for her to ask for it.

Isha smiled at Talia, a knowing look on her face. Likely sensing the young woman weigh her questions against her patience. Talia couldn’t be sure, as her powers had so far been noticeably absent in the liminal space. A lack that she somehow felt keenly, reminiscent of when she’d lost her arm.

Talia glanced down at the smooth, white replica of her prosthesis, devoid of any of the frills she’d added to it, that had accompanied her into the dream. Yet another question.

“That works,” Talia decided.

Isha smiled wide, sharp, pearly teeth glistening.

“Very well. I suppose, to understand the history of Sach’elcor, you must first understand the history of the Inavarian Empire and the Enemy,” the Ancient’s smile turned to a slight grimace, “And for that, a comprehension of the planes…”

Isha sighed and shook her head.

“So much rests on things you are completely ignorant of. A whole pyramid of information, with each block resting on the next. Bother.”

Talia picked up her pen, already taking a few notes.

“I mean, in that case, start from the bottom of the pyramid up?” she suggested with a grin and an impatient jitter.

Isha chuckled, tapping the table twice as plucking a cup from where it apparated out of a small indent.

“It all begins with weaving, and the Arcaneum, then. What you call magic. I suppose the Astral plays a role, but considering how unlikely it is that we’ll be navigating it any time soon, we can address that later,” Isha mumbled, mostly to herself before turning to her assistant, “Byron, a standard display, if you please?”

“Of course, academician,” the man said tonelessly. Without any overt action on his part, the table morphed, its texture shifting and colour fading from marble to matte black. A large panel, like the one that had let Talia into Isha’s abode.

“Lovely,” the Ancient crooned, setting aside her cup of mystery beverage and placing both her hands on the panel. The air above the table’s surface erupted into light, in a manner reminiscent of the expedition’s map table, only more refined. If the map table was the crude workings of a novice sculptor, then this was the work of a master. Sublime, crisp and precise.

Under Isha’s ministrations, the purple light bent itself, flattening into a lattice of overlapping planes. Then, with a single finger, the Ancient poked haphazardly at the construct, creating mountains and valleys as the light bent and shifted at her touch. Sometimes, rarely, the lattice of light broke entirely, leaving tiny little holes, like the back of a moth-eaten tunic.

When the horned woman reached an arbitrary point of satisfaction, she leaned back heavily into her chair and waved her hands at the odd thing as if unveiling a piece of art.

“This,” she said, “Is the universe. A cross-section of it, at least; modelling the whole thing would take us far too long.”

Talia looked up from where she’d been copying the lattice into her journal as best she could and gave Isha a skeptical look.

“This universe is a…mishappen wafer cookie? I feel like that’s the kind of thing we’d have noticed on our own…”

Isha looked her in the eye, registering what she’d said, and laughed. It sounded like the ringing of crystal bells. For a second. Then it devolved into a snorting, teary-eyed mess.

“No, no you don’t— ahhh that’s a good one. I forgot how much fun teaching can be,” the Ancient guffawed, “Here let me elucidate you.”

Sticking her fingers into either side of the vaguely cylindrical lattice of light, Isha pulled her hands apart. Instead of tearing apart, the construct contracted, whizzing past until only a single layer was visible. Then she poked at it lightly, creating a tiny speck of green amid a whole quarry of purple.

“Theoretically speaking, that is Sach’elcor. Nothing but a piece of dust in the grander scheme of the universe. Understand now?”

“I…think so. You’re saying the scale of what we’re talking about is too large to be noticed from my point of view, right?”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Exactly!” the Ancient said, pointing at Talia as if she’d won a prize, “That’s exactly it. Now forget all about that, and let’s return to our wafer cookie, as you so eloquently put it.”

Isha brought her hands together, and the full scope of the lattice returned. The implication of just how large the universe was compared to Talia’s world boggled the mind, but she tried her best to set it aside and absorb what the Ancient was trying to teach.

“Now, theoretically, the layers of the wafer are infinite, layer upon layer upon layer of the biggest cookie you’ve ever seen; however, we’ve only confirmed the existence of three, so we’ll focus on those,” Isha said, waving a hand and doing away with all but three layers of the lattice, one of which remained purple, while the other two turn green, and light blue, respectively. “The orange, here, is the Material. The physical world, mostly vast amounts of particles swimming in an even vaster empty void specked with little bits of heat, light and mass. Rarely, through sheer chance, this is where pockets of biological life appear. I should think you’re familiar enough with it, given that it’s where you reside.

Now, directly ‘below’ the Material, is the Astral. We won’t talk about that, because it’s a confusing place with confusing rules that will only confuse you.”

At her words, the blue layer dissipated, leaving a rough, uneven surface of green that occasionally gave way to points of purple as valleys turned to sinkholes.

“The purple is the Arcaneum. It’s the source of the very originally named energy called arca, or mana, and ultimately, the home and birthplace of ‘magic’,” Isha said, “With me so far?”

Talia nodded her head slowly, eyes lingering on the places where the Arcaneum poked into the Material on the diagram.

“Now, in about ninety-nine point nine percent of the Material plane, arca is for all intents and purposes completely, utterly absent. If you were in such a place, without an active Gate, and weak as you are, you would probably be unable to weave. You’d be limited to the most bare of psionics, at best. Take the crescians before we arrived as an example. For one such as myself, when I was…corporeal, attempting to weave —to truly weave— would likely cause—”

Talia started, her attention drawn away from the glowing shapes as Isha’s words became garbled and unintelligible mid-sentence. The Ancient was caught up in her explanation when Byron spoke up.

“Academician, Blackout prohibits the transmittal of such sensitive information to unauthorized non-citizen sapients. My apologies.”

Isha stopped short with a growl of disgust, muttering what were probably curses in her mellifluous mother tongue; the words themselves translated over into broken half-syllables naming what sounded like at least a half-dozen distinct anatomical impossibilities.

“Fine. I guess it’s good enough to know that Bad things happen without regulated Gates, if the weaver is powerful enough. Nothing for you to worry about for another century at least. The important thing to know is that in most of the Material, if you can weave, it’s because the Empire has made it so. The other times…well, a natural Gate —what we call a Seam— is when the Arcaneum has bulged enough to rip through the fabric of the Material. If you somehow manage to find yourself in a Seam… Well, first off, you’ll know, and second off, you will probably know for a few very brief, very strange moments.”

Talia frowned.

“If Seams kill you just for existing, then how do you know they exist?” she asked pointedly.

Isha gave her a knowing grin.

“Because they’d don’t always kill. A few hundred millennia ago, when the inavarian species —my people— were just taking our first steps off of Ina’tavar, our homeworld, one of our ships drove straight into a Seam without ever recognizing what it was. And how would they? In all of our history, we’d never encountered anything like it. By all accounts, they didn’t even realize until it was upon them.”

Isha paused then, rubbing at her horns and pondering something for a moment.

“Five thousand adventurous souls embarked on that journey,” she finally said, “According to record, only forty made it out of the Seam. One of those people went on to become the first emperor of Ina’tavar and another brought eternal life to the inavarian masses. We’d discovered the Arcaneum, and it changed our entire society. In the span of a century, we ruled over multiple solar systems —an array of planets around a star— and in the span of a millennium, that reach had extended to well over a tenth of the galaxy.

All of it rested on the exploitation of arca.

Then came the split. It’s been called many things. We’d thought the strain of time on the sapient mind had long been solved. Psionics was the biggest player in that, but our whole society turned to it once it became clear that the process that makes us immortal also neutered us.”

Talia struggled to even imagine what Isha described, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask for clarification, she just continued to feverishly take notes, enraptured.

Isha sighed, pinching her nose in a decidedly mortal gesture and looking up to the sky.

“The process of it is a combination of ‘magic’ and science. An…altering of your makeup to allow you to weave, much like we do for all the Ward races, and then a weave ritual very similar to creating a conceptual focus,” the Ancient explained, glancing over at Byron as if she expected her words to get cut off at any second. When the faceless man did not react, she continued carefully.

“The Arcaneum functions differently than the Material. It’s all about concepts, and manipulating its energy depends on your Anima’s ability to mould them to your will. Eventually, a few malcontents among us realized that they could do more than just mould concepts. They could…embody them. Become them. In doing so…”

Isha shook her head, looking her age for the first time that Talia could remember.

“Matter does not enjoy hosting that much power, no matter how prepared that matter is for it. Those who underwent the transition retreated into the Arcaneum, leaving the largest Seam ever recorded in their wake. It was a tragedy. An entire planet subsumed into a different plane with all of its trillion lives. Have you ever felt someone die? Psionically, I mean.”

Talia nodded slowly, her face sober. Suddenly, her obsessive note-taking seemed callous. Almost cruel. To her, this was a lecture. To Isha, this was lived history.

“Right, of course you have, sorry. If you can, imagine those deaths, multiplied by a trillion. We felt them all. Not individually, but collectively,” Isha said, taking a deep breath and calming herself, “Ina’tavar died that day, leaving the Empire rudderless. The galaxy went to shit for a while. But we recovered. The Empire got its first empress. We mourned, and eventually, we moved on. A bunch of idiots had done incalculable damage to our civilization, but we’d survived. Heavy restrictions were put in place around weave-craft. Houses like mine, House Scylla, were strangled out of existence, for the most part. We diminished our use of arca to the bare minimum. The consensus was that the risk was too much. So we developed alternatives, perfected them.

Then they came back.

The Seam around Ina’tavar boiled and warped, letting loose a legion of beings. Daemons.

While we’d been collecting ourselves, they’d been preparing. The Arcaneum had gotten its first real taste of the Material and realized that it was hungry.”

Isha heaved a heavy sigh and waved a hand, dispersing the diagram floating above the table. Her titan-esque form slumped in her chair, looking small and frail despite its elegant immensity.

“Suddenly, weave-craft became eminently important. Arcaneum research was pushed up in every priority queue as fleets burned in the skies of dozens of worlds. For a while, we were losing. The daemons were a calamity, not only physically imposing and virtually numberless, but also insidious and corrupting. Eventually, we turned the fight around, but not before the already slim numbers of immortal inavarians had been shaved away to near nothingness. Citizen races under the aegis of the Empire were brought in to take part in the fighting, but even then, manpower was low.

Other species, the dveri, the verga, the alvs, saw their homes, once kept isolated and safe under the Waykeeper Edict, destroyed by the daemon hordes. Pre-sapients across multiple sectors began vanishing without a trace, subsumed into the Arcaneum. To protect them, the Haven program was created, named after the first world given to the war’s refugees. Sach’elcor —Sanctuary— was the second.”

Talia let out a burst of air, not realizing she’d been holding it. A flood of questions came with it unbidden.

“What’s the Waykeeper Edict?” she asked, continuing before Isha could answer, “No wait, is it true that you created humans? The Matriarch seemed to think so. Or are we just another refugee species? Are the daemons the reason you brought us into the Under? Why? Does the thick rock hinder the connection to the Arcaneum? Is that what the arcano-suns are for? It is, isn’t it? What about—”

The Ancient’s —inavarian’s— grim expression chipped away with each question until a faint smile rested on her slim lips. Seeing Talia get into her stride, Isha raised a hand to forestall any more questions.

“Patience, child,” she chuckled, “One question at a time, and then I’ll get back to my tale. To start, the Waykeeper Edict is the work of the first emperor. He set forth a set of criteria a species had to reach collectively before they were considered fit to participate in the galactic community, before which the species was to be left to develop on its own. The Edict had to be…bent during the war, but most of its tenets still held when we brought the Ward races underground into dveri cities.

As for humans…well your people weren’t so much created as you were, shall we say, aggressively shepherded. House Gens, a subset of House Ordis —you can think of the Houses like dveri clans, if you like, it’s about the same— was tasked with remedying the Empire’s manpower problem. Project Terra was born from that, and from Project Terra, came Project Terra-II, and eventually, generations later, came you and your people. The whole point was to recreate the inavarian genome as naturally as possible, before the advent of immortality and the ensuing fertility issues. Oh. Think of genome as…bloodline. Sort of. That’ll have to be a conversation for later.

As for why we led you underground…well, as you’ve learned, it started with a scream. And then Sach’elcor fell apart right in our hands.”