D’Argen did not bother to look for any settlements or villages around the skirts of Sky Mountain. He had a direct path in mind and knew exactly where he wanted to go. It was easier to just be fast and avoid looking at any problems that may arise. Though he did not have enough of a path in mind for how to run the mountain, he did find the sparsest forest and only destroyed a dozen trees before the forest finally gave out to rocks and snow.

The lip of the crater he created with his fall was hidden under snow, as was the crater itself. There was no depression in the snow at all. It had all piled up and hidden everything under it. It even looked like a proper new tip of the mountain, save for a few cragged edges higher up.

D’Argen was tempted to run to the tallest of those tips and just try to breathe the thin air so high up. Instead, he focused on his task. His sword should be somewhere here, under all that snow.

Dead centre.

He thought he would have to eyeball it, maybe actually climb that tip to see it, but instead something else caught his attention. The closer he got to the spot, the more he realized what it was. A hole. In the snow. An almost perfect circle that went down and down. With no clouds above his head and the sun high in the sky, D’Argen could actually see the bottom of that hole.

It was empty. There was nothing but more snow.

As much as the thought annoyed him, he jumped down. He landed on the hard-packed snow, surrounded by it on all sides except for above. He looked up, just to make sure he was not closed in. The sight of the sky above made it easier for him to breathe even if the packed snow around him made him claustrophobic. He wondered for a moment if this is what Lilian felt like in their last moments when the avalanche buried them. He ignored the thought and knelt down, burying his hands in the hard snow.

His fingers were cold and numb by the time he reached something other than snow. It was hard and smooth. Finally! Only, when he started digging around and collapsed some snow on himself from one of the walls, he realized it was not his sword that he found. It was a scabbard.

The hole. The scabbard. The missing sword.

Somebody had been here recently.

No.

D’Argen started digging frantically, using the scabbard as a tiny shovel, and only succeeded in collapsing more snow on top of him. No sword. Nowhere. He was starting to get desperate, but nothing still. The more he dug, the more snow fell on him until he was completely soaked and absolutely freezing.

The whole was too perfect a circle and leading straight down. No mortal could have made it. No mortal knew to make it here, in the exact spot. Vain kept records of almost everything in his library. D’Argen pushed himself up the walls and then right back down the mountain and toward Evadia. He did not care for the world fading away to nothing at all, not even when dark black spots appeared in the distance and started growing larger and larger as he approached the castle and the inhabitants he could not run through.

He slowed enough to see the houses and buildings of the city so he could run atop their roofs instead of through them and any mortals residing in them. When he slid to a stop right through the front gates of the castle, he startled the dozen or so mortals gathered there.

There was no time though. He ran to the library.

Only to be stopped barely through an archway by a familiar sword. The blade looked almost like silver, shining and bright, folded too many times with intricate patterns deep into the weave of it that gave it even more depth, even if the blade was so thin. The guard was just as delicate and fine, with the same silver sheen as the blade and delicate metalwork that looked so fragile. Even the grip was silver, except for being wrapped in soft black leather.

D’Argen knew this sword so well. He had felt it slide through his lungs and heart. Yet the one wielding it this time was not Lilian. He should not have been surprised that instead it was Vah’mor.

Vah’mor, God of Protection, Consumer, General of Evadia, and leader of D’Argen’s aspect as the best kinesiologist of them all. Liar. Betrayer. Not D’Argen’s friend and close confidant. They held the blade with its sharp edge too close to D’Argen’s chest. They were looking at the sword, as if inspecting a weapon recently out of the smithy that they would have to test out.

“That’s mine,” D’Argen said before he could stop himself. “How did you get that?”

“I took it,” Yelem, the God of Fire, spoke from the side.

Only then did D’Argen realize that the dozen mortals he had seen earlier were not mortals at all. They were all Never Born. They were all armed and dressed in fighting gear. D’Argen could have sworn they were mortal staff and residents earlier, their shapes faded and easy to pass through in his sight as he ran. Not the solid black of another Never Born.

“You left such a fine blade on Sky Mountain,” Vah’mor said, bringing D’Argen’s attention back to them. “This is from the old realm, is it not? From our realm?”

D’Argen nodded slowly. He wondered if he had the courage to run right into that blade and just end it all. His body, instead, moved back and he took a cautious step away. Two of the Never Born moved in his peripheral. Then two more. They were circling him. Surrounding him. Like he was a danger.

The sharp point of that sword was looking more and more tempting with every breath. Even as those breaths froze in his lungs and his body stiffened from fear. Even as he kept stepping away and into the centre of the circle the others were forming.

But he was right. The sword would take him back to the mortal realm. That was the only thing that made sense as to why the Never Born—the creations—in this world would try to keep him from it. It was the main reason, aside from his own fear of the pain, that had him moving away from the sword than toward it. Was he being controlled now too? Were all the creations in this world puppets meant to keep him in this place until his mind healed itself?

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If so, they had done a horrible job of it.

“May I have it back?” D’Argen asked. It was worth a try.

Vah’mor finally looked at him and their silver eyes were a shade off. Just a shade. Just enough to make them not Vah’mor.

“Why?” they asked.

“You know why,” D’Argen responded. “I want out of here.”

“Ah. So, I was right. You did learn the truth. Was it the other one? Lilian, was it?”

D’Argen felt his entire body stiffen at those words.

“Or Thar? I knew I shouldn’t have brought him back to you,” Vah’mor’s mouth was the one moving but those were not their words or their voice. “As annoying as it was to have you lazing around and drinking everything away, at least it kept you in place.” The way they held the sword in a loose grip, the way they waved it around in a lazy manner—“And it was only after you saw him that you thought to look for the sword again.” The tip circled around to point at D’Argen. Then the thing wearing Vah’mor’s face jabbed the sword in the air to make a point and said, “I bet it was Thar. I missed what you two talked about.”

“It was Lilian, actually,” Yelem said from the side. He had a sickle in each hand. “I spoke with Thar earlier.”

“Ah! So, Lilian it was. I knew I should have kept them here longer. But they were so annoying!” the tip circled around and pointed at D’Argen again.

He could do it.

He just had to open his mahee and run right at the sword. It would be horrible and would give him nightmares for centuries, he would probably never be able to look Vah’mor in the eye again, but—

D’Argen reached for his mahee and yanked it wide open.

But something happened.

The single step that should have shortened the distance and have him slide right into Vah’mor’s body with the sword through him turned into a stumble. His mahee did not respond.

Yelem came at him, both sickles swinging. D’Argen’s mahee responded and helped him dodge out of the way. D’Argen aimed for the sword again only to stumble once more. Hiras was the one attacking from his other side, the dagger in her hand sheathed in lightning. He dodged the blade then once more jumped to dodge the lightning that reached for him. Right into Halen’s hammer. He had to duck under the wide swing.

His body was moving on instinct in the fight, avoiding the blades with the use of his mahee, even as it refused to respond every time he thought of going near Vah’mor.

As he dodged another attack, this one from Sa’ab and her spiked whip, he wondered why he was dodging. What would happen to him if those hits connected? He decided to risk it and ran right into Asa’s wooden staff. His mahee slowed him at the last moment but the staff connected hard across his middle then spun and hit him even harder in the back, sending him sprawling on the ground. It hurt. He rolled out of the way just as that staff connected hard with the marble ground where he had been lying a moment ago.

Maybe it had to be a blade? Did it have to be his sword? He had wondered that before.

Then Cana was right in front of him, an intricate dagger in her hand that easily buried itself between the folds of his robes and into his chest.

Everything froze.

The pain had D’Argen scream only for the sound to make it hurt even more. Cana stepped back, bloodied dagger in hand. D’Argen reached to stop the blood only to realize his hand was dry. There was no blood. The pain was real. It was horrible. Yet there was no wound on his body. Even his robes remained free of the rip.

Asa’s staff hit him over the head and it was hard enough to crack his skull. He heard the bone shattering. He felt his entire being rattle. His vision doubled and swam and nausea made him hunch even further over.

But it did not kill him.

Yelem’s sickle should have cut off his arm where it hooked around his bicep. His robes remained intact even as he felt the pain of severed nerves.

D’Argen barely avoided the sword that Olov aimed at him. It hurt, the scratch across his middle, but it hurt like a scratch. D’Argen yanked his mahee open again and ran. Away from Vah’mor. Away from the other Never Born that took chase. The world did not fade away and he heard footsteps behind him as he roamed the halls.

When he saw Acela ahead of him, the first thing he noticed was the splendid golden sword in her hands. He pivoted into the first door he saw on his right and right through it. Vain was waiting there with a thin sword aimed for his stomach. D’Argen spun out of the way and past Vain, out the other door and then through a hall. He saw nobody for a few steps but heard the feet against marble behind him. He ran into the main receiving hall.

Zetha was there and knocked him over completely with a hard hit against his whole body using a shield. D’Argen landed hard enough to take what little breath was in his lungs out completely. Then Zetha’s sword struck down and D’Argen rolled out of the way again. His entire body was screaming at him, but that initial hit from Asa’s staff had finally stopped hurting.

D’Argen got up and ran again, there was a small antechamber at the end of this hall that was connected to a secret passageway. He heard a strange click then something flying through the air, but the thick arrow that struck him in the shoulder was a surprise. It threw him off balance and into one of the columns. Zetha was almost upon him. The others had entered the hall. D’Argen chanced a look up as he circled the column to use it as a shield. Upates was on the upper balcony of the hall D’Argen had run into with a strange contraption that looked like a small bow with a wooden middle. He loaded another thick arrow into it and took aim. D’Argen ran for the antechamber.

There was nobody in it. Nor the passage he entered. He did not risk a break and started running again. The pain from Cana’s stab wound with her dagger finally faded away. The rest of him was in too much pain. Even his mahee was crying.

There was a split in the passage. D’Argen wanted to get out of here, but he could not recall where each split went. He chose one without thinking when he heard the passage door behind him open. Even though his mahee was acting strange, Lilian’s wind was at his feet. It made his steps lighter, made him almost completely unheard, and he took another random choice at another fork, then bounded up the stairs in front of him, taking two or three at a time. By the time he reached the top, he could finally feel the hand that Yelem had cut again and used it to grab the edge of the wall at a three-way split and turn.

Two more splits in the passage, more stairs, and he was lost in the dark. No torches had been lit this far in. He walked slower, feeling around the stone walls. When he felt wood, he pushed. The door opened into one of the smaller common rooms on the upper floors. There was nobody there. D’Argen closed the door softly behind him and leaned against it to breathe.

All the pain finally faded away, but the nausea remained.

Is this what he had to look forward to for the next four thousand years?

No.

He had to find Vah’mor and his sword. He had to use it. There was no other option. Not anymore.

The door to the common room opened and D’Argen tensed. The only other ways out of that room were the passage behind him and the balcony. He could jump out the balcony, scale the castle walls, go higher where they would not find him. He could slip into a random balcony and then find a way to leave the castle all together. Return only when he knew they were not actively looking for him and find his sword. Worst case scenario, the balcony did not look too high.

All his thoughts and plans came to a halt when he heard the door close. If they were attacking him, they would not take the time to close the door. When he looked over, his breath left him for another reason altogether. Thar was standing there in his all white ensemble and a calm expression on his face. His sword was not out.

D’Argen wanted to cry.