His first instinct had been the right one. He should have guessed. Why had he let Jack talk him into it? That man, the one who shared the same face as the mask... how was that possible? It was so incredibly old. If Xian had ever truly existed, he should have died ages ago. And yet, there he had been, in his room, telling him this fantastical story...

He stopped in front of the building. The one the boy had shown him. It had then been easy to locate the woman’s apartment. Everyone here knew her. But she had not been home.

Today, he would try again. And the day after that, and on and on, until she finally responded...

His knock at the door was quickly answered.

The mysterious woman he had met in the street looked even more outrageous now, as she wore nothing at all. All she wore was a bored expression as she looked at him. Then a twinkle shone in her eyes, followed by a slight smile.

“I remember you,” she said as she spun and returned inside, leaving the door open for him. “Have you figured out what you are yet?”

“Yes,” he said, embarrassed. He stepped in and closed the door, making a point to keep his eyes away from the naked woman. “I am your son.”

She laughed. “Don’t be silly. I don’t have any children.”

“Could you put some clothes on?” he mumbled.

Standing on her balcony, she twirled the contents of a glass as she stared at the streets below.

“No.”

“Please...”

“Why?” she asked, distractedly.

“Because it troubles me.”

“That is not my problem.”

“We need to talk,” he insisted, “and you’re not making it any easier...”

“Are you telling me what to do?” she snapped, her eyes darting in his direction.

“No,” he said, his eyes still avoiding her. “But could you do it anyway? For me?”

She stared at him for a moment. Then shrugged and walked off into another room. “So talk, then,” she said from afar.

“My name is Paul Zerrmond. I’m an orphan and have been looking for my parents for a few years now. My quest led me to Alyssya, who told me how you asked her... to take me away... when I was born.”

She returned with a long black dress and a frown on her face. “What?”

Paul was relieved he could now look at her at least without feeling like he was a voyeur.

“You are my mother,” he repeated.

She stared at him. There was no mirth in her expression now. No concern, either, or even recognition.

It was a bit disappointing, though he wasn’t sure what it was exactly he had expected.

“You are Raduul, are you not?”

She made a dismissive gesture as she picked up her glass from the counter where she had set it down, and walked back to her balcony. “I am Thyria Raduul. Though you humans have this annoying tendency to call us by our last names. Would you call your friends by their last names?”

“Then you are my mother.”

She sighed. “I suppose I am. It would certainly explain things.”

“Like what?”

She glanced at him. “Well, don’t just stand there! Come closer. I’m not going to bite you.”

After a moment of hesitation, Paul joined her on the balcony. “What did you mean when you said it explained things?”

Thyria shrugged. “You are not like the other humans.” She motioned at the crowd in the streets. “Those insects are dirty and weak and mindless. You, though... I sense a strength in you. A power that is not in them. You are different.”

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

He would not have put it in such words, but it did sum up much of what he had felt his entire life. The fact she could sense it so easily was a relief. It felt like a burden had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders.

This was, after all, a form of recognition.

“I have often wondered why I was not like the others...”

“Is that why you sought me out?”

“That, and...”

“Yes?”

“I want to know about my father.”

Her expression soured as she turned to look at the street again. She remained quiet for a while. “You should leave.”

“But you haven’t told me—”

“I have nothing to tell you,” she cut him off. “You are nothing to me. Never have been, never will be. Go. Now.”

Though she did not shout, her voice was filled with simmering rage.

The pain he felt then was deeper and stronger than any other he had experienced before. He had not expected her to lash out at him like this. Despite that his mother had rejected him once before, it had never crossed his mind she might do so once more.

Her eyes held his gaze, and he could read anger and hatred in them. It tore him apart and he turned away.

Without another word, he walked out and left.

***

She had cried all night after she’d heard the news.

It had taken days to get an answer from the fortress. The sect did not like to communicate with the outside world.

Her parents did not care.

Nor had Jaob’s, for that matter.

At least not until they’d heard the news.

After that, they’d pretended to care.

But Cora knew their tears were fake.

There was a reason why her fiancé had become a servant to that madman, Valerian.

He had nothing else in his life.

She sobbed even more at the thought.

Because she realized she must not have meant much to him either. Not enough, at least, to keep him safe. To keep him wanting to live.

He had preferred the fake sense of belonging the mad god provided, to the real comfort of her arms.

What did that say about him?

What did that say about her?

His body had been delivered to her doorstep. Broken. Flailed. Covered with serpent bites. It had sent her into a raging frenzy until they’d taken the corpse away.

She had gone to the police, hoping to get some justice, but she was told nothing could be done. When Jaob had signed up with the cult, he had essentially given up all his rights. He had purposefully turned himself into an object, and had legally become the property of Lord Valerian. As such, his master was free to dispose of him as he pleased. This implied all sorts of atrocities—including torture, and even murder.

Cora did not know how to process all this information.

Or how to grieve.

And yet, it was not the first loss in her life.

Her brother had died, a few years ago.

In some ways, though, this was more difficult.

Because they knew her brother was going to die. He had been sick long enough that they had prepared for it.

And because, this time, she also felt guilty.

Had she not been loving enough?

Maybe, if she had shown her feelings more, he would have stayed with her, instead of running off to join a death cult?

She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, took a deep breath... then started to cry again.

***

On the southern tip of the continent, some six hundred miles from Joqqal, was a small mining town called Naleq. It sat at the base of a mountain range for thousands of years, a peaceful little haven away from the religious madness of the larger cities.

Jim Carson was an ordinary guy living an ordinary life.

Every morning, he woke up with the sun, ate breakfast, fed the animals, and set out to work at the mines—like most folks who lived in Naleq.

It was a sound economy and the village prospered, selling copper to the various industries that required the material, then using the profits to buy what they themselves needed.

When the work day was done, Jim headed into town with some friends to enjoy a drink or two at the local bar. Then he’d pick up his kids from school and head back home. By then, his wife would be there as well and have almost finished preparing dinner.

And though he had a good life, Jim—like many others who lived in Naleq—dreamed of someday becoming somebody. Earning more money, buying better things for his family, moving into a bigger house... perhaps even into a bigger city, where opportunities would abound.

But it was just that, a dream, and he knew it. He could never afford such a move. And he would never get a raise. Just like his father never had, and his father’s father before that. Six generations of Carsons had lived in this part of the world... and though he dreamed of breaking the chain, he had accepted it would never happen, at least not in his lifetime. Perhaps one of his children...

And then, every night, just like every other night, he would go to bed and fall asleep and dream his hopeless dreams of grandeur.

But there came one morning when nothing went quite as it should have.

The alarm sounded off ten minutes late. The eggs were too cooked. His supervisor at work was sick, and his replacement was a tyrannical jerk who forced them to stay twenty minutes beyond the end of their shift. And, of course, his favorite bar was closed because of a gas leak.

And yet, none of that mattered that day.

Because, as Jim walked back early to his home—grumbling about bad luck and how his life was so unfair—the ground beneath his feet began to shake.

At first, he did not think much of it.

There were, occasionally, earthquakes in this region. He was used to it, as was everyone who lived here. In fact, many folks walked down the streets at this hour, and no one thought twice about it.

But as he went on his way, the shakes increased in intensity.

To the point that he frowned and looked at the ground.

Others started to pause and take notice.

Cracks appeared in the earth. Small and thin, at first, but they quickly lengthened.

The shaking intensified further, and the cracks opened.

People began to scream.

Panic spread faster than fire.

People were running in every direction, trying to find shelter—but where could one shelter from something like this?

Jim was too stunned to react.

When he did, though, it was already too late.

He ran toward his house.

It was within his line of sight. As he ran, he saw the roof collapse, and the entire structure sink into the earth.

His mouth opened to let out a scream, but it was muffled by his fall.

He had stepped into one of the widening cracks.

Everything went dark.