“What are you talking about?” I say. “I’m not Fyreneth. I don’t even know who that is.”

Nek still watches me with a reverent look. “Her return has been prophesized for generations. She swore her death was not final. That she would return again.”

I shake my head. “You’re not making any sense. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She was a phoenix harpy, just like you,” Nek insists. “Her affinity was fire instead of air. And she wielded an artifact so powerful, it drew the wrath of the gods themselves. An artifact which could shape the nature of the world.”

I glance at the Dungeon Core skeptically. It’s broken some rocks apart, but it can’t really shape the nature of the world, can it?

[Affirmative,] Echo says, answering my thoughts. [One of the Dungeon Core’s many features allows for the shaping and restructuring of material.]

I blink, then surreptitiously tuck the Dungeon Core beneath a sleeve of my cloak. Alright, maybe the Dungeon Core is some powerful artifact. But prophecies? Gods? It all sounds like myth to me.

Then again, I hadn’t believed in magic or reincarnation either, and look where that’s gotten me. Perhaps I should try to keep an open mind to their beliefs. Though, the idea that I am some reborn legend of old is still too much for me to swallow.

“I can’t be the only phoenix harpy in the world,” I say instead, turning my focus back on the rocks I’m still warming for the dracid. “Surely you don’t go around calling every one you meet Fyreneth.”

“No,” Nek agrees. “But you’re the only one I’ve ever seen.”

I frown, staring into my flames. “Are there no other harpies here?”

“No,” Nek says. “The caves were too much for them. They left generations ago, and haven’t been seen since.”

“Seems like they should have taken the dracid with them,” I note as another shuffles forward, holding his hand out for a warmed stone. I pass one over, and he nods his head respectfully before submerging back into the pile of blankets and dozing dracid.

“They tried,” Nek says. “Many have tried. But the trek is inhospitable, monsters prevalent, and the Jorrians still see us as a threat. At least the harpies were able to escape due to their flight, but the rest of us have been forced to remain. The last attempted expedition across the ice was when Mir and I were only children.”

“Ice?” Jorrians? Escape? There’s clearly much to learn. “I don’t suppose you have a history textbook I could borrow?”

“Books?” Nek asks. “Beryl might have a few, however texts have become very rare. I’m told there’s a library in the Catacombs, though I’ve never seen it myself. I don’t think much would have survived all this time.”

This explanation only has my head spinning with even more questions. “Nek, I’m afraid I’ll be asking a lot of very basic questions of you, if you’d humor me,” I say. “You see, I don’t even know where I am. This city—this world—is all new to me. About the only thing I have been able to figure out is that we’re somewhere underground, and certainly not on the planet I came from.”

“Quite an interesting claim,” Beryl says.

I twist around to find the dwarf woman standing in the doorway.

“Mirzayael told a similar tale,” she says. “I’ll decide what to make of that myself.”

Beryl looks me up and down—or at least, I assume she does, given the tip of her head—and gives a satisfied grunt. “See you’ve got a scrap of clothes now. Good. We’ll make you something more fitting later. Come with me.”

“Oh,” I say, looking between Beryl and the dracid. “But I was helping to warm rocks…”

“The rocks aren’t going anywhere,” Beryl says. “Now come on.”

I hurriedly push the remaining half-warmed rocks toward the nearest dracid, who murmur their thanks. Then I scramble to catch up and follow Beryl out of the room. Nek is already ahead, speaking in quiet tones to the dwarf.

“Fyreneth?” Beryl repeats loudly, causing Nek’s ears to go flat. “Poppycock. You better not go stirring any rumors up, now. I know how you like to gossip.”

Nek glances back at me as I hurry to make it within earshot. “But she bears the signs—”

“Bah!” Beryl waves him off. “Go make yourself useful with those claws of yours, not your tongue. The Glowcap family is low on meat. Go hunt some skitters for them.”

Shoulders hunched, Nek slinks off without another word. I watch him go, curious, but more interested in what Beryl has to say.

“Is Mirzayael doing alright?” I ask.

“She’ll be fine,” Beryl says. “Such a fuss over one broken leg. I’ve healed it up as best I could and sent her off to rest. All she needs now is time.”

“Oh, good,” I say, relieved.

“Of course, she lost the leg, so it’ll take some getting used to walking without,” Beryl adds.

“What?” I cry. “It doesn’t sound like she’s fine!”

Beryl grunts. “She’s got seven more to spare.”

I must look horrified, because the dwarf cracks a smile.

“Mirzayael is tough, and she doesn’t like being coddled. I doubt one missing leg will hold her back. Don’t worry about her; she wouldn’t want you to, anyway.”

The dwarf turns and keeps walking, and after a moment’s hesitation, I follow after. I’m still not quite sure what to make of Beryl. Or anyone here, for that matter. But there’s only one way to learn more.

Beryl’s house is much smaller than the dracid chamber, but better lit. The fluorescent mushrooms that act as natural lights are also accompanied by a small fire, which is sitting beneath a stovetop covered in all sorts of jars and simmering pans and herbs. There’s a few bloodied rags in the corner I note as well. Thankfully, I don’t see Mirzayael’s leg anywhere.

Beryl gestures for me to take a seat on a cushion across from a raised stone which I now recognize as a table. The dwarf mixes some of the herbs and spices, tossing them in a pot of boiling water, then portions the resulting concoction out into two clay mugs. She sets one before me as she takes a seat opposite with a long, pained grunt. She takes up her own cup after she sits. I give the drink a cautious sniff. A sharp earthy sting fills my nose.

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[Check,] Echo says, answering my guilty conscience. [Mugroot brew. Affect: minor calming of nerves.]

Just a kind of tea, then. Not trying to drug me. That’s nice to know.

“You’re causing quite the stir in town,” Beryl says, taking a drink from her own mug. I also try a sip, and find the drink has a delightful toasted flavor. “Nek is just the start of it.”

“He thinks I’m Fyreneth reborn,” I say. “Or that’s what he told me. But I assure you, I have no idea who this person even is, or even where—”

“Yes, yes.” Beryl waves off my words. “I know all this. Mirzayael filled me in on what you told her. Quite the claim.”

“It’s entirely understandable if you don’t believe me,” I say.

“Belief,” Beryl repeats, thoughtful. “Irrelevant. My belief won’t change your reality. You are here now. You are an outsider. You know little of our world. Correct?”

“Right,” I agree. “And I’d very much like to—”

“I will explain things,” Beryl says, interrupting me so abruptly I’m not even sure if she heard me start speaking in the first place. “And you will listen quietly.”

I open my mouth to say ‘okay,’ then close it again and simply nod. I clutch the mug between my hands, taking another sip.

“This world is Lusio,” Beryl begins. “And this region is the Polar South. We are on the outskirts of the Jorrian Kingdom. Once, this community was a kingdom of our own.

“Long ago, we were a small yet flourishing nation. It’s unclear where many of our ancestors came from, however what drew them together is certain enough. A charismatic and powerful sorcerer, Fyreneth, promised a land where every creature had a voice, no matter their heritage or abilities. It is said she raised her castle from the tundra between two moons, growing from the earth itself like a tree blooming from a seed. At first, Jorria was wary of this new kingdom. However, Fyreneth brokered an accord, offering many precious stones and metals for trade with anyone who would treat with her. The amity she fostered with Jorria brought incredible wealth to the country. For close to a century, she ruled in peace, and the kingdoms flourished.”

Beryl pauses to take a long drink from her mug, frowning at a spot on the table.

“However, it did not last. It is uncertain if she was betrayed, or if it merely took so long for the gods to notice. But the gods did, eventually, notice. Overnight, their Champions appeared on our doorstep. They claimed our kingdom was founded on heresy; our wealth and prosperity bought through the abilities of a cursed relic. They decided our civilization was to be destroyed. Every evidence of the relic and its stamp on the world erased from existence.

“Fyreneth fought them all on her own, for no other mortals could stand against the gods’ chosen few. But even she could not possibly hope to win against such odds. The fight was merely to buy time. While she battled, her people slipped from the kingdom to take refuge in Jorria. Our allies, she thought. But at their gates, we were turned away. They declared us Forsaken by the gods and threw us back out onto the ice.

“Left no other choice, Fyreneth protected her people in the only way she knew how. In one last, desperate move, the kingdom was swallowed by the ice, entombed back into the earth from once it had risen.

“As for the gods’ Champions… they were never seen again. Nor was Fyreneth. She gave her life to protect her people. Unfortunately, it was also her magic and leadership that had kept her kingdom thriving. Without both, we began to wither.”

Beryl sweeps a hand around the room. “Until we’ve become what we are today. Some still venture out onto the ice, seeking to map a path that might lead to a more hospitable home. However the Kingdom of Jorria keeps a watchful eye out for any of our explorers—the Forsaken, they call us—preventing us from traveling far. Occasionally, they even come looking for us, hoping to root the last of us out once and for all. But our city remains hidden well enough that they’ve never been able to find a way down. Sometimes a select few make it into the caves, but they’ve always perished within the labyrinth before they had a chance to find our settlement. And so, caught between certain death and a slow one, we remain, and we wane.”

Beryl takes another sip of her brew. “Which raises the question: How did you find your way to us? Especially, as it seems, you did not even know we were here.”

I set my cup down, letting out a long breath. “This is all quite a lot to process at once. I am sincerely sorry for the hardships your people have faced. It is entirely undeserved, and I never meant to intrude on your society or cause a disturbance. It’s clear any outsiders at all are a deserved cause for caution and alarm.”

I hesitate, then hold out my wrist, offering the Dungeon Core for Beryl to examine.

“To answer your question, this is how I found my way here. I discovered it when I woke up in this place. The stone—this Dungeon Core—provided a way for me to map out the tunnels and prevent myself from wandering in endless circles. Do you know what this is?”

The woman lightly touches the stone. She tips her head as if listening.

“There is a… presence here,” she says. “I cannot understand it. But I feel it is trying to speak to me.”

“I can speak with it,” I say. “It also seems I’ve formed some sort of… pact with the entity in there.” I shift uncomfortably. “Is this why people thought I was Fyreneth reborn? This strange artifact, like the one in your legends?”

The Dungeon Core hasn’t done anything near the scale of raising or sinking entire castles from the ground. Then again, it’s only had the pittance of my mana to work with, and it does seem eager—and capable—of moving more earth than I’ve let it.

“I can see how that would fan the flames for someone like Nek,” Beryl says, withdrawing her hand from the Core. “Although your species also is likely feeding the rumors.”

“Fyreneth was a harpy?” I ask.

“A phoenix harpy, specifically,” Beryl says. “Do you know what that means?”

I shake my head.

“Phoenix harpies cannot perform wind magic like the rest of the species,” Beryl explains. “Instead, their Affinity is fire. Phoenix harpies are rare; perhaps one in a hundred born with an affinity for fire instead of wind. Some consider this a handicap, as wind magic is needed for a harpy to achieve flight.”

Aha! Now it all comes together. No wonder I found the wings insufficient for lift on their own. Of course magic is involved. If you could summon a wind, smooth the flow, alter the surrounding air pressures, who needs control surfaces? Receiving the answer to a question that had been nibbling at my engineering brain fills me with satisfaction. At the same time, I’m struck with disappointment; I’ll never be able to fly, then.

“There is another thing about phoenix harpies,” Beryl adds. “A belief which is largely considered superstition, but a belief that persists nevertheless. It is said that phoenix harpies have the ability to reincarnate. That some, with enough magic and willpower, may become reborn.”

I shake my head. “Well that settles it. We can prove to everyone I am not Fyreneth, because I have none of her memories. My memories are from…” I trail off with a grimace.

“...From another life?” Beryl supplies. “That’s what Mirzayael told me.”

“Ah.” I wrinkle my nose. “Yes, well, I do see how this looks.”

The dwarf chuckles. “It is almost as though you are trying to impersonate our lost hero.”

“No!” I object. “I swear, that was never my intention. This is all merely a series of extremely unfortunate coincidences.”

Beryl regards me with a faint smile. “Perhaps.”

I rub my face, trying to massage out the headache I can already feel forming. “Please believe me when I say I desperately do not wish to be mistaken for your founder.”

Beryl cackles. “That much I do believe. If you’d been trying to impersonate her, you wouldn’t be so insistent to the contrary. So now we arrive at the question: Where do we go from here?”

An excellent and fair question to ask. “I’m not sure,” I admit. “I would love to stay in your village for now, if you’d allow it.”

Beryl snorts derisively. “Of course. We are not Jorrians who would throw you back on the ice. If you have nowhere else to return to, then you are welcome here.”

“Thank you,” I say, bowing my head for emphasis. “I’m not sure how I can repay your hospitality, but I will try to be of use wherever I can. Offer my warmth, if you think it would help.”

“Like you did with the dracid?” Beryl asks.

I shift, embarrassed. “I am now seeing how that entire encounter did not help disperse any rumors of me being Fyreneth. But yes, I believe my fire can be used for good here.”

Beryl sets her empty mug down with a decisive clank. “Good then. More hands are always needed. You may continue to provide heating for the dracid chamber until we can find a more permanent place for you.”

“Actually, I’ve been having some thoughts about that,” I say, glancing at the Dungeon Core. It almost seems to shimmer excitedly in the flickering light. “I think I might have a way to make the heating in that chamber more efficient.”

Echo said the Dungeon Core could not only alter the shape of rocks, but their structure. And if that implies the possibility of chemical alteration, then it opens the door for thermodynamic applications as well.

But if I’m right, making these changes will do nothing to convince the people here I’m not some ancient savior reborn. In fact, quite the opposite.