Azarus stood motionless in the hall of gods. From a distance, he appeared to be little more than a speck next to the majesty of the mirror before him. Up close, he seemed smaller still, dwarfed by pillars that could hold up entire worlds. His glazed eyes stared at the mirror, watching Moka adventure through new lands to complete her quest with a blank expression.

Without warning, a dim green spark floated from the surface of the mirror. It wavered in the air, as if it was difficult to float. The spark wound its way toward Azarus, looking much like a glowing green bee that could not handle its liquor.

After a long, slow journey, the mote of green light landed on Azarus’s nose. It wobbled and slipped, sliding down the bridge of his nose despite its best efforts. With a bright flicker, the spark halted its descent and kept from falling. It clung to the very tip of Azarus’s nose, hanging over open air. The light coming off it was dimmer after its journey.

With a crackle and pop, the spark burst into thousands of pinpricks of light that sunk into Azarus’s skin. For an instant, he was nothing more than a glowing outline of light.

Azarus blinked and inhaled, bringing motion to the dead space he occupied. His eyes grew clear as he came back to himself. The spark of emerald fire and all evidence of its existence were gone.

Azarus’s lips parted, a smile blooming on his face. He pressed his hand to his chest, fingers splayed out, feeling the rapid beating of his heart. His exhalation became a bubbling brook of laughter. Azarus could feel his lungs expand to their fullest as he breathed deep, his spontaneous chuckles becoming laughter originating from deep in his belly. Satisfaction filled his veins, his heart pumped with pride.

Moka, his dear champion, was the bravest soul he could have asked for. Face to face with beings that could squish her like a bug, she had screamed in their faces and demanded respect. He had felt what she felt, seen what she saw, and heard her consciousness as if it was his own. A volcano of suppressed resentment and rage dwelled in her heart. He had doubted her ability to control herself after the first run, but she had not killed a single villager this time. And she had wanted to, oh how she wanted to, which made her restraint even more impressive. Poor Granon was lucky he saw her before she got too close!

Azarus turned, a broad grin on his face, to share his joy.

Moka served him with the devotion he had expected when he first stepped into existence. Issues of mistaken identity aside, this was the first time he had felt such amazement, such pride in someone other than himself. Her conviction was a gift of its own. The world pushed, and Moka pushed back with a spine crafted from dwarven steel. Fear be damned. She still felt fear, of course. He had felt it through her, a raw, visceral thing. But she did not let it control her.

Azarus was not ashamed to say that he, a divine being, admired his uppity mortal champion. She was flawed, but mortals often were. What was important was that she was his. It felt like a weight had lifted from his shoulders. He had envisioned spending a multitude of runs learning to manage her impulses, fighting her at every turn to keep innocents alive. Now, he was looking forward to seeing what an [Architect] could do.

A cool breeze ruffled Azarus’s painted coat as it blew through the vast hall. He opened his mouth to sing Moka’s praises, to share what he had experienced. The words died on his lips. His expression crumpled. For the first time, the vast hall felt cold. He was alone. There was no one to share with. For a brief, blissful moment, he had forgotten. He had gotten too caught up in seeing the world through Moka’s eyes, meeting who she met and discovering what type of people they were. A thick emotion gathered in the back of his throat. His eyes felt burdened.

Azarus’s hand, splayed on his chest, curled into a fist, clutching his shirt. His momentum came to a sudden stop, causing him to stagger. He felt his shoulders curl inward, toward his fist, as if to protect his heart from unseen blows.

Azarus forced himself to take a deep breath, filling his lungs to bursting, then emptying them out until there was nothing more to give. He deliberately unclenched his hand and lowered it to his side. Again, he inhaled to his fullest and released everything out. The formless ache haunting his chest remained.

With a heavy thud, Azarus sat down. He allowed his head to hang low. With no regard for his dignity, he propped his elbows on his knees and rested his face in his hands. In this position, Azarus looked like a lost pebble next to the Mirror of Eons and the colorful world it displayed. He raised his head, looked at the surrounding emptiness opposite the mirror, felt an echo of that hollowness within himself, and buried his face in his hands once more.

Azarus knew he was acting like a child. His instincts screamed at him to stand up and present himself as the god he was. He did not care. It was not like anyone was there to humiliate him for his behavior. The screens held no opinion that he respected, so they did not count.

At that moment, Azarus felt a longing so great that it felt like a part of him had been severed. He could not comprehend how pathetic he was before living through Moka’s eyes. His existence was merely him, by himself, with the screens and someone else’s life as his only companions. Even his painting was a poor attempt at breathing some life into his surroundings.

Azarus’s stomach heaved. He made a choking sound in the back of his throat as he tried to swallow the thick emotions. Memories of every time he tried to understand himself or his domain flooded his mind. He felt unclean.

Azarus knew who Moka was. She displayed her true self with every interaction. Every new obstacle was an opportunity for her to be the person she wanted to be. She was a mortal who did not fear death, only failure. But him? There was no pressure to act, nothing for him to lose, and no one to challenge his thoughts. How could he hope to understand himself in a place devoid of meaningful choices?

Engrossed in his horrific enlightenment, Azarus did not notice the ethereal chains revealing themselves around him. Seven barbed spikes, covered in runes, pierced his body. One for each limb, his head, his heart, and his gut. The chains criss-crossed the empty hall, like the webs of a divine spider, chaining Azarus to the great pillars. From a certain angle, the tangle of chains seemed to weave great runes the size of mountains.

To the side of Azarus’s seated figure, Moka continued her journey in the mirror, blissfully unaware of her god’s crisis. Now that Azarus was no longer looking through her eyes, the mirror allowed her voice to enter the hall.

“So, a deer-headed spirit hunts your people when the wind blows away your god’s protection,” Moka said to Granon, as if summing up. “And you can’t kill it because you have no magic.”

A soft, rustling ambience filled the hall. Moka’s voice bounced off the pillars, echoing several times before disappearing into the ether. Granon’s deep bass followed close behind. The sound drew Azarus from his soul-searching.

“It’s not that we have no magic, little-”

Out of the corner of his eye, Azarus saw Moka heft her chisel, looking pointedly at the finger closest to her.

“Call me ‘little one,’ one more time and I will start stabbing beneath fingernails.”

Granon gave the goblin sitting on his palm a look somewhere between dubious and wary. He swallowed, then gave her a slight nod.

“Fair enough, Moka,” he said, taking great care to pronounce her name with clarity. His booming voice was like a drop of water in a lake, unable to fill the emptiness of the vast prison Azarus occupied. “But this is not a weak spirit. Before it feasted on the souls and flesh of giants, it was still unkillable by elemental magics. It wears the skin of others like its own, using its victims’ deepest desires to lure them out of hiding. Or it did. Before it got too strong.”

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“Got it.” Moka nodded once, firm and decisive. Azarus almost envied her resilience, but what she had endured was not something to desire. “Okay, let’s go.”

Granon did not move immediately. Moka raised her chisel.

“Stop it,” Granon said, poking Moka in the side with his other hand. “You didn’t say where you wanted to go. It’s the middle of the night.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Moka looked down her nose at her insubordinate companion, an impressive feat considering the height difference. “Take us to your holy place and bring the cart.”

Granon considered the request for a long moment. The two lingered beneath the pale, diffused light of the low-hanging clouds. His breath came out in billowing clouds of vapor in the night air, drifting up to join the clouds. After being silent for a time, he spoke.

“Are you purposefully being difficult to punish me?”

Moka scowled at the giant, but did not refute his words.

“Ah,” Granon said, nodding to himself. “A bit more petty than I expected from a Champion, but I suppose you represent your god.”

Moka shook her chisel at Granon. Azarus could practically feel her bloodlust emanating from the mirror. He had mixed feelings about his name being dragged into this. After a moment of consideration, Moka threw her chisel down onto the palm of Granon’s hand and crossed her arms over her chest.

“That was a dishonorable strike, and you know it.” Moka leveled a finger at the smirking giant. “Not my fault you couldn’t force out ‘a skinwalker eats villagers on clear nights’. Could have made this easy, but no.”

“Maybe,” Granon said with a noncommittal shrug as he lifted the gourds out of the cart with one hand. “But we are poor, scared villagers and you are the vessel of a god.”

Moka immediately objected.

“You are giants!”

Granon cocked an eyebrow at her. He kept working, not dignifying her protest with a response.

The light-hearted squabbling was like daggers in Azarus’s ears. He winced when Granon called him petty. Not because it was a sore point, but because he did not know if he truly was. He had never had cause to be petty beyond irritating the screens, which did not count in his mind. The screens had imprisoned him at birth. Any reasonable god would hold a grudge.

“Fine, fine.” Moka grumbled as Granon placed her in the emptied cart and took off toward their destination. “You are who you are. Species doesn’t matter. So on. So forth. Happy?”

Granon’s playful smirk flowered into a self-satisfied grin as he winked over his shoulder. After a beat, the smile withered and died, his usual passive expression reigning once more. He let out a weary sigh.

“How can a dead man be happy?” he said, a wry expression breaking to the surface for a second. Then it was buried beneath the weight of his current reality. “I am grateful to have met you. I hope you can keep a memory of me with you on your journey.”

Azarus raised his head at that, looking directly at the sad, thoughtful giant. His words resonated with Azarus. To be remembered. To be valued. Azarus wanted those things too. A part of him demanded it.

“Pathetic,” came Moka’s sharp response. Both giant and god stiffened at her uncompromising tone. “Your heart beats, but you’ve already given up? If I remember you, it will be as a cautionary tale.”

Granon stammered. Azarus spluttered. Granon, in particular, looked wronged. He cast about, as if looking for the words to refute her rude rejection of his heartfelt statement. Azarus silently urged him on. Before Granon could find what he was looking for, Moka spoke up again.

“I’ve seen despair. It whispered sweet nothings to me.” Moka’s gaze was unwavering. Her jaw clenched and unclenched as she forced the words out. “Letting go and giving in would have been easy. Comfortable. I broke, and all I wanted was to rest.”

Granon stopped fumbling for words to say. He stopped pulling the cart and faced Moka, giving her his full attention. Azarus remembered the little goblin girl dragging her lifeless legs behind her as she crawled toward her burning village. His eyes darted to his painting, then back.

“The end is coming for all of us. Fight it or give up, it doesn’t matter. Since it doesn’t matter, I will fight. With my dying breath, I will strive for one more.” Moka held Granon’s gaze until the giant averted his eyes. Azarus watched as his champion laid back in the cart, put her hands behind her head and took in the night sky’s flowing cloudscape. After a beat, she continued. “My life and death will not be dictated to me, unless I let it. You have chosen to lay in your grave and wait.”

A light breeze blew across the mountain slope as Granon resumed his walk toward the peak in silence. Moka’s words seemed to hang in the air. She was content to leave them there. By the time a quarter of an hour had ticked by, Granon had brought the cart to the base of a giant-sized set of stairs carved into the side of the mountain. The stairs ascended into the massive pillar of clouds that dominated the mountain’s peak.

Granon set the cart aside and turned to face Moka, complex emotions lurking behind his stony expression.

“I understand,” he said, his voice heavy with unexpressed feeling. “You will not remember me because you cannot respect me. I do not blame you. I cannot even respect myself.”

During the journey, Moka had worked a splinter the size of her forearm free from the cart. She chucked it at Granon. It bounced off his cheek, leaving him looking more hurt than wounded.

“You’d think a gigantic head would have a big brain.” Moka scolded the giant, waving her finger in front of her nose. “I respect you well enough. You survived so far and can still smile. That means something. But I am carrying regrets of my own. I won’t be weighed down by yours as well.”

Despite Moka’s callous words, Azarus heard the kindness in her voice. The gentle urging. Even if she wanted to, Moka could not remember Granon when the next run began, and she did not even know she would forget. Azarus would remember him, though. He would sear the sight of the despairing giant, his head bowed in front of a goblin a fraction of his size, into his mind.

Azarus clenched and unclenched his fists from where he sat. Light, flickering energy seemed to fill his limbs like the aftermath of a lightning strike. In a sudden rush of movement, he rose to his feet and approached the Mirror of Eons. He laid one hand to his chest, over his heart, and pressed the other against Granon’s cold, lifeless reflection.

“I will carry your regrets,” Azarus told the mirror’s image, his echoing voice finding no purchase in the vast hall. “When the wind comes and turns your hopes and expectations to dust, I will remember you and your hardship. I will take your pain as my own and use it as fuel to carry on.”

Azarus’s fingertips tingled to the point of aching as he tried to reach beyond the mirror and touch the despondent giant. He could feel the steady beat of his own heart, contrasting the smooth, icy surface of the mirror, each contraction bringing a mild sense of pain. Azarus pushed harder. He longed for the world behind the mirror. It called to him now that he had experienced it. He wanted to feel the wind on his face, to climb the tallest mountains, to face overwhelming foes. More than anything, he wanted to live and have regrets of his own.

Far above Azarus, the blurry form of a bird formed of countless stars and galaxies spread its wings and opened its beak in a silent cry. Its piercing emerald eyes watched Azarus with something akin to affection. In that moment, its feathers seemed a touch more defined than they had been before.

“Alright,” Moka’s clear voice cut through Azarus’s introspection. “Enough feelings and stuff. The wind is getting stronger, and that shrine isn’t gonna disassemble itself.”

Granon jolted, his downcast expression morphing into one of shock and confusion.

“You want to destroy the shrine? Did your god tell you to do that?”

Moka paused her climb down from the cart. She looked over her shoulder at the giant as she hung from one of the enormous wheels. With exaggerated movements, she mimed throwing another splinter at him.

“No, and no. Holy places gather divine magic over the years. We are repurposing it.” Moka continued her climb down. When her feet met solid ground, she turned to Granon with her hands on her hips. “Did your shamans teach you nothing?”

Granon narrowed his eyes at her, his brows furrowing.

“Enough, Moka. I am not a child nor am I your enemy.” Granon’s voice had a ring to it Azarus hadn’t noticed before. It sounded like strength. “Treat me well.”

Moka gave the irritated giant a tight nod, then gestured for him to lower his hand for her to climb onto. Granon acquiesced with a small frown.

“My god saw it fit to gift me the talents of an [Architect],” Moka explained as she urged her companion to climb the stairs carved into the mountain. “And my parents taught me how to trap a deer.”

Granon objected.

“That doesn’t explain why we are dismantling the shrine.”

“Yes, it does!” Moka stuck her nose up in the air. “We need materials. Then we’re gonna see if deer spirits make as good of leather as regular deer.”

From worlds away, Azarus smiled at his little goblin. It was a gentle upward curve, containing unspoken bitterness. At least this time, her violent urges were aimed in the right direction. He was curious about what she would do next, and how. The odds of a goblin [Architect] defeating a monster that gave a village of giants pause seemed long. If Azarus had someone to bet with, he would go all-in on her success.