A low piercing shriek resonated in his head. It sent shivers down his spine as despair grew in his heart.

The mask was gone.

Somehow, it had been destroyed.

Xian was devastated.

He was so close, too!

The shock wave had rippled through him just as his ship hovered above the ancient city of Ahuaxa.

It was storming outside, and as he reoriented his screens he saw the renegades busy slaughtering the Zendaar.

Xhoras threw the last debris of the precious artifact into the air, then turned to face his next victim.

Without a moment of hesitation, Xian ejected himself from the ship. There was no time to land—he could do it remotely later.

As he fell, he used the nanobots in his body to control the winds and make them carry him to the ground.

He noticed the man who’d slumped against a tree had now disappeared. Xhoras seemed surprised by this, but he quickly moved to another target.

That was when his eye caught the approaching shape of his millennia-old enemy.

“You are too late, Xian!” he snickered. “The mask is gone. You can not stop us, this time. We will accomplish our divine mission.”

Even as he landed, the lone Rissl created shields around the surviving Zendaar. They wouldn’t hold if his foes wanted to force through, but at least it would slow them for a while, until he could come up with a better plan.

“One day you will have to pay for your crimes,” he said somberly.

“Crimes! You dare speak to me of crimes? When you have encouraged this type of abomination? And even partook in it yourself? You are the criminal.”

“There is nothing wrong in creating life. It is no abomination, it is art. Your perception of reality is skewed.”

The other two renegades stopped trying to kill the Zendaar when they noticed the shields. Instead of forcing through them, they walked up to their leader and now stood behind him.

“Your opinion matters little to us, or to the One True God. In the end, His justice shall prevail.”

He made a small gesture and the three of them, as of one accord, ascended into the air.

Xian watched them go without an attempt to stop them.

“Why did you not kill them?” hissed a voice from behind him.

Turning, the Rissl recognized the white-haired man who arrived at the scene, with fury in his eyes.

“I remember you, Rakash.”

“And I you, Xian. As cowardly as ever.”

“You do not know what you speak of.”

“Is that so?”

Xian never cared for the old Zendaar’s tone, let alone his tendency for intrigue.

“There is more to the universe than this world,” he said—knowing full well how his words would sting. “You are powerful here... may I call you Uncle?”

“You may not.”

“You are powerful here, Uncle,” continued Xian, ignoring the response. “But your perception of power is a narrow one. The rules which apply here do not necessarily apply elsewhere.”

“Are you lecturing me?” asked Rakash, with poison in his voice.

“You assumed I could hurt my kin because I have power, just like you can hurt your kin because you have power. I could not, no more than they could hurt me.”

The white-haired man stared at him.

“You should leave now,” he said before turning his back and walking away.

***

One other perceived the mask’s destruction and was similarly shaken by it.

Paul was sheltering from the storm when it happened. Watching the news in his hotel room.

There were constant reports now of weather disturbances and various natural disasters.

Scientists were confused, because none of it made any sense to them. They could predict pattern shifts in advance, but more often than not the timing would suddenly change and the disaster would hit earlier than anticipated.

The change came as they were announcing yet another tornado.

It was like a sudden stab in the back of his neck. Except it wasn’t physical. He felt it inside of him. It sent blinding flashes of light all through his being, and he cringed as he understood their significance.

The mask had been destroyed.

How was this possible?

But something else had happened then, he realized.

It was as if the explosion had created a bridge, a connection between all those who had been able to sense the mask. He could feel and even see—in the form of shifting colors—the energies that represented them.

There was Xian, of course, but there were also three others, which Paul assumed were the Rissl his father had mentioned. After all, if they were all of the same species, would it not make sense for them all to be connected?

Troubled by all these new sensations, he turned off the TriVid screen and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of it all.

As he concentrated, the patterns took on more substance, becoming easier to grasp and identify.

They became agitated, as if they too now sensed him. The three runaways, in particular, moved erratically, as if trying to erase all traces of their presence—but it only made them more prominent.

He reached out toward the form he knew to be Xian’s.

Could they communicate in this fashion?

If so, he could not figure out how.

His father seemed to sense him. Beyond that, there was no other form of understanding.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

But then, he felt movement.

As if Xian was traveling.

It took a long time before he could focus enough to understand what was happening.

Xian was coming to him.

When he finally arrived, his first words were: “Who are you?”

Paul grimaced. “Your son, apparently.”

Xian frowned. “That’s impossible!”

“Ever heard of Thyria?”

From the distaste painted on the man’s face, Paul could tell he had.

“What did that wicked woman tell you?”

“It’s not just what she told me. I have evidence she’s my mother.”

“That well may be, but I cannot be your father.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ve never been with Thyria—not in that way.”

Paul blinked. “You haven’t? But... Then how do you explain my connection with the mask? Or with you? Or even my powers!”

“I’ll admit all of those things are troubling, but I cannot see how it could be possible. It just never happened.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” said Paul with a frown. “Considering—”

“Considering what?”

Paul bit down on his lip, wondering if he’d said too much.

“Well... let’s just say she didn’t have very flattering things to say about you.”

Xian stared at him, then laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Do you know what the Qojjans claim she is the goddess of?”

“Lust,” he grimaced.

“What else?”

Paul frowned. There had been two other things, hadn’t there?

What had the priestesses said?

It came back to him.

“Contempt and spite.”

“There is good reason for that,” remarked Xian.

***

They had writhed in the mud, under the constant rain, screaming and dying.

He had watched the scene in petrified horror.

When the mask had exploded, he had wondered if this was how they would die. Not just him and his friends, but his people as a whole—perhaps even the world. Had the gods deemed them unworthy to live? If so, was he not obliged to accept his fate?

Unperturbed, Xhoras had turned his twisted grin upon Evken. And had slowly started to walk in his direction, with an outreached hand.

At that moment, Evken had wished he was somewhere else.

He had not felt like he deserved to die.

And though he had always thought himself cursed, he very much wanted to live.

Without him realizing it—cornered into a life-threatening position, with a burning desire to survive—he had instinctively called upon an ancient power... a technique so old, that all of his brethren had forgotten it had ever even existed.

Evken had closed his eyes.

When he had opened them again, he was, in fact, somewhere else.

Somewhere he had not recognized.

It was strange... it was dark, it was bright... it was shifting... and though he had never been there before, deep inside of him, it felt familiar.

Instinctively, he had known...

He had phased his way into the Gleaming.

It was a place of perpetual night, where shadows thrived and where darkness fed upon light. There were forests here, as deep as an abyss and as vast as a sea. There were fortresses of bones and castles of blood, lakes of molten rock and streams of acid tears, bottomless pits that drew the wandering souls to suck them into eternal oblivion.

But, most of all, it was a place of pure magic.

As Evken looked around him, considering the leafless and blackened trees and the immense chasm that opened beyond, he wondered how, exactly, he had got here. And, more importantly, how he could make his way back to his world.

For he knew this was not his world.

Or, rather, had not been in a long time.

It was a troubling thought, but there was knowledge, ingrained deep inside of him, that this was, in fact, his home. Or had been.

Our books claim we came through the Gleaming... he remembered.

He had always wondered what it meant.

And even now that he was here, he still did.

A sound made him spin around, waving his cane in front of him.

A shapeless form moved toward him... a blackness, a fog... it wavered and shifted. Colors spun within, which came into existence and dissolved with a little spark.

“There has been a shift in the essence...”

The voice came from the form. It sounded hoarse, cavernous, ancient. Powerful, too, in a strange kind of way.

“What are you?” he asked, almost fearful.

“I am that which always has been and always shall be, and that which cannot be naught.”

Evken grimaced. “Do you have a name?”

There was silence for a moment as the fog changed its shape and texture a few times, as if it were confused by the question.

“I sense you think of me as Fog. You may address me as such.”

Lowering his cane, Evken leaned on it and sighed.

“I guess that can do as well as anything else.” Using his free hand, he motioned to the broken landscape around them.

“Where are we?”

“This is the Gleaming. A place between worlds, beyond the realm of men.”

“Between worlds?”

“That is so.”

“How is that possible?” he asked.

“It simply is.”

He started to walk, away from the chasm. There was a path nearby which he decided to follow. He noticed Fog was floating along by his side.

“How did I get here?”

“Only you can know.”

“How do I get out?”

“The same way you came.”

Evken did not much like riddles, and these were not helping him.

“Where does this road lead?” he asked, deciding to change the topic.

“Wherever you wish it to lead,” came the infuriating reply.

He stopped abruptly and waved his cane at the shapeless form.

“Could you please be more specific? Or this conversation could go on forever...”

“That would assume time is consequential. It is not.”

With a groan, Evken decided he would go on in silence. What was the point of asking questions if all he got in return were enigmas?

All of a sudden, he froze.

A thought had occurred to him.

“Farewell,” said Fog.

Even as the word rang in his head, the scene around him faded.

The path, it had said, could lead wherever he wanted...

He wanted to go home.

As soon as that thought had formed, he had started phasing out of the Gleaming and back into Ahuaxa.

He arrived under the rain, in a scene of carnage.

Dead bodies lay all around him, which he identified as so many of his former Szelkin brothers.

The three Suryi were gone.

A human servant ran up to him and knelt before him.

“Oh great Norkh! We thought you had died too. Blessed be this day! Blessed be all the gods for granting you safe passage...”

He had little patience for this kind of talk. He would have ignored the servant entirely, but he reconsidered. Pausing at the doorstep of his house, he turned back to look at him.

“What happened to the Suryi?”

“They were chased by another of their kind, oh great master! The one they call Xian. He came down from the sky and the others cowered in fear.”

“Hmm.”

Evken went into his house.

His people would never be safe with these gods roaming about the world. Now that he’d seen their true nature, he understood better why Xian had put them to sleep.

The world would not rest as long as the Suryi were awake.

They had to be stopped.

A part of him also hoped Xian may be a more benevolent god than his brethren and that perhaps, he at least, would have answers to his questions...

***

The hanging garden was as beautiful as she remembered it. It floated above the city’s busy streets, though still well below the jungle’s floor. The trees here were neatly pruned, a marble-paved road winding through them. A stream carried its purplish water all the way to the edge, from where it fell into a fountain at the center of a large plaza below.

The mansion itself was a large structure at the heart of the botanical haven. It rose at least ten feet above the ground. It was much larger than what Rakash needed, of course. He lived alone, after all—if one did not count his numerous servants, which few here did—but he did enjoy visits... Though she doubted he’d appreciate hers.

He often held lavish receptions, where the upper class of Zendaar society would scramble. These could run for days, at which point his guests would be invited to stay in the many rooms of the palace.

It would have been very rude for anyone to decline such an offer, no matter how long the reception lasted.

Thyria walked through the empty halls, ignoring the servants who greeted her—or tried to tell her that no, the master wasn’t home, or that no, he couldn’t receive her... They had been well trained. But she paid them no heed. Not a single word even passed her lips as she marched on.

She found him in the library, as she knew she would. He was reading a book, his free hand busy twiddling his pendant.

“Hello, Uncle.”

There once had been a time when she had called him ‘Father,’ but to do so now might have dredged up unpleasant memories, and risked angering him. So she had decided instead to use the traditional mark of respect due to an elder.

“Thyria,” he said as he looked up to her, his voice cold. “What do you want?”

She had not expected a warm welcome, but at least some measure of neutrality. She was not even granted that much. It was disappointing.

“Still you have not forgiven me?”

Rakash remained silent, his eyes boring into his daughter’s.

She looked away. “Xian has returned.”

“Do not speak his name in my presence.”

“You already knew!”

“He was just here,” he said with distaste.

“He would destroy all you have done!”

“You think I do not know that?”

This was going better than she had expected.

“What are you going to do?”

“What would you have me do? No,” he added quickly with a raised hand, “do not answer that. I do not care to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

She would have wanted to tell him that she had never intended to hurt him. That she had been corrupted by that monster. That she regretted her actions, of failing his teachings.

Instead, she tensed and glowered at him.

“Reading your books will help, I’m sure.”

“It does,” he said coolly. “They ease my mind. Without them, I might do something rash.”

“Perhaps you should,” she said defiantly. “We can’t let Xian—”

“Enough!” roared Rakash as he slammed his book on the table next to him. He stood and walked up to her. “There is no ‘we.’ As for Xian, not everything is about him. There are more important matters which require my attention.” He continued past her, adding coldly: “And you are not one of them.”

She felt like ripping someone’s eyes out, but kept it bottled in as she watched him go.