"Damn bugs, you've seen one, you've seen them all," Rivel mumbled to himself as he once again found himself dragging his once-pristine, now-tattered robes through mud, dirt, and clay.

He sighed, thinking that at least when walking through that strange microcosm forest outside the Thorvant mushroom zone, he could pretend he was on some sort of sightseeing vacation. But now, with only gray and brown ahead of him, he could do nothing but resort to his charm.

"Born in shadows, I walk through snow,

Void is my soul, devoid to the core.

No family nor friends, I am not from here.

I draw pagan symbols, stumbling in the dark,

As I did in the beginning, as I will do in the end."

Out of reflex, he held his hands close to his chest and closed his eyes as he walked forward. Suddenly, the earth around him transformed from soil to flesh, and the rocks were no longer rocks but cartilage. He heard the beating heart, and he was a child again, prompted by the high priest to walk forward. He thought he would die, but he felt that death couldn't occur to him, as he had never been truly alive.

He revisited all those moments when he saw children, mundane as he should have been, on the playground, pretending to battle, as he observed them from his tower, safe but distant, surrounded by stacks of books.

He didn't remember having an infancy; his mind was fully developed from the minute he was born, or rather, summoned into this world. The high priest's idea had been to draw from the realm of magic a being of pure spirit to increase survival chances during the ritual, but he hadn't accounted for the lost souls at the summoning.

Rivel was told, over and over, how five top summoners had their life drained by him as he materialized – five highly trained Tenebri for one exceptionally bright but ultimately normal kid. He was always demanded to achieve nothing short of perfection, so he was never allowed to indulge in entertainment reads or watch arena fights like a plebeian.

Throughout his life, he stored knowledge like a living library, often flaunting his importance and intelligence, knowing full well that for them, he was but a tool – a bad investment they had to make the best of.

The high priest would probably give him hell if he returned as a "normal" Tenebri instead of some superior, previously unseen version of a demigod. Rivel stumbled forward, praying his prayer as he was told, remaining calm as he walked past the mutated carcass of one of the boys who failed to remain focused. For one moment, and one moment alone, he felt whole again.

It wasn't new to suffer from sudden attacks of depression, where no matter how hard he was beaten, he couldn't move or even blink – paralyzed by that feeling of hopelessness, by that certainty of not belonging in this prison of a body that, in front of the relic, he felt vanish.

He thought for a moment he was returning to the void, where he belonged, and a warmth coursed through his self like a blanket on the coldest winter night. He smiled, thinking that death felt like sweet coffee and hot chocolate.

But then, he was back. He was cold again, trapped, imprisoned. More than that, he was hungry. The high priest's smile at his return faded as he saw none of the others return with him. Out of a batch of a dozen kids, only Rivel survived – or so he thought until he peered down at the rest of the room. Dried husks of beings, both fully formed Tenebri and the mutated refuse resultant of fears consuming the failures, all dead, yet unnaturally so.

He collapsed on his knees, crying, and the priest tried to console him, saying that they died from their own fears, not knowing the real reason for Rivel's misery.

The soil returned to its normal semblance as he focused; he wasn't dead yet, and as long as he drew breath, tasks would continue to come his way, problems still needing to be solved. Right now, the problem was figuring out how to infiltrate the Spider's nest without alerting the royalists.

He thought again and concluded that there was simply no way of doing that, and that if he tried to be discreet and ended up being discovered and attacked en masse by an army of spiders, he'd be out of commission for quite a while.

He decided it would be better to resort to a grandiose entrance. Taking a few more turns, he found himself close to the widened tunnel serving as the entrance to the nest. As loudly as he could, he chanted:

"Arise, Lord of the dead!

The words of the accursed summon thee,

Souls of the Damned, fickle candlelights,

Beings from the grave, rotten things,

By the words of hatred, rise and take your vengeance!"

A terrible rumble shook the cave, and the spiders were stirred, quickly moving out of their houses and hiding places onto the main road. Then, there was quiet for a few moments. All saw Rivel standing at the entrance, slightly higher than the nest, as he shouted:

"Nyxoria! I have come for you, betrayer! You have turned your back on me and your people..." He recalled his alleged identity and added more vehemently, "The Great Mother has passed judgment; your fate has been woven, Nyxoria!"

A familiar red-striped spider shouted, and soon others followed: "Fateweaver! Fateweaver!" as the pitched battle began. Fangs fell upon flesh, drawing blood with claws mixing in a confusing mass of sharp shapes. Caustic venom spit sprayed from smaller spiders, and the intoxicating fumes enraged both rebels and royalists.

Cries, howls, and deafening screams muffled the incoming spirit waves that surged from the mausoleum. Mangled spider corpses joined the fray, and the dead, though not having the strongest constitution, created panic. When a long-dead elder brother tries to take a bite out of you, that second of panic and hesitation can cost your life.

Chaos ensued; Rivel's quick-cast fire distinguished neither foe nor ally. The fumes of putrefaction drew Nyxoria out of the hole she was hiding in. Arkyne, that detestable little spiderling, stuck to her like a lamprey to a fish, but neither lasted very long. Nyxoria's huge frame might have been good for intimidation, but for a horde of fearless zombie-spiders, it was just a bigger buffet.

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The chewing noises and the queen's screams unnerved the royalists, who fell back to protect their queen, turning their backs on the enemy. Their numbers fell greatly. Arkyne watched as the queen died slowly, piece by piece, and scurried away, trying to save his hide, only for one of Rivel's fireblasts to smite him.

"Thought I'd forget about you, scoundrel?" Rivel mocked as he surveyed the battle. It was an absolute success! Well, seeing the piles of corpses and the panicking rebels, he thought there probably was a better ending that would have turned more royalists to his side, but that was in the past.

The flames of war quickly drowned the houses, and soon the entire nest was ablaze, fueled by the highly flammable cobwebs that the stroke of food Rivel provided had produced. And they say art is useless!

Before he could bask in his victory, he saw a throng of spiders gathering at his feet, all laid down on their stomachs. Neith was the first to speak:

"Great Fateweaver! Words cannot express how sorry we are for not having recognized such a divine entity as yourself, even with all the evidence right before our eyes..."

Rivel felt a bit strange having to lie to a crowd that, if found out, would make short work of him. But oddly, he felt proud assuming the identity of a god-sent. Perhaps he was the Fateweaver after all?

"Fret not. What's past is past. I will lead you now onto the great lands above, where, after we defeat one fearsome foe that threatens our existence, we can lay a nest so majestic that even this former place will pale in comparison. A nest so vast that our webs will stretch all the way to the horizon. The egg pods will reach the heavens, and our crawl will cover the world!"

The rallied spiders cheered, even turning a deaf ear to the creaking noise their burning homes made in the background. A city built through the ages by a tribe now on the brink of extinction would burn to the ground and lay eternally in the dark silence, along with the now-collapsed mausoleum...

...

Guffar observed the stern faces of the Silkborne behind Rivel, nodding slowly.

The outsider had certainly had quite an impact on their biome. Rivel had to use every ounce of influence he had as the victor of the recent skirmish, as well as that of the Avatar-like figure of Fateweaver, though he didn't dare draw too much from that, fearing his lack of understanding would lead him to lose everything he had accomplished.

A few dozen Thorvant advanced from the city, fully armed and equipped, and joined his army. He spoke to the Spider-kin, who grew fiercer at the sight of their long-hated racial enemy.

"Nyxoria's greed and Arkyne's weakness have led our people to this petty state, where we can barely stand by ourselves and need to look for greener pastures rather than continue waging a fruitless war against our neighbors. Guffar, the leader of the Thorvant, has agreed to lend us some manpower, which will help us reinstate ourselves. This is a gesture of kindness and understanding that we should appreciate." He rested his hand on Guffar's shoulder.

"Remember, it wasn't them who started this war. It was the former Queen's pride, the same pride that led us to the brink of starvation and extinction. So ask yourselves, who's the real enemy?"

A familiar red-striped spider yelled, "The treacherous Queen would rather have us all killed before accepting defeat!" Rivel nodded vigorously in agreement, inwardly sighing in relief that he had some support.

"Exactly!" He continued, "And now our enemy lies dead, along with the debris and ashes of her hubris."

This seemed to appease the hostility in the Silkbornes' twinkling, bedded eyes, but naturally, it would take far too long to have them forget all the tension created by years of territorial contest. Time, of course, was something Rivel didn't have. Not that it would matter; in his mind, they were all expendable pieces to play against that grunt who called himself Malcolm - very expensive, troublesome, annoying pieces.

Before departing, Rivel had a chat with Guffar and traded a few oddly shaped spidery religious relics, which held only artistic and symbolic value, for some rations.

"Outsider... No, Rivel. I've talked to the oracle and have a pretty approximate idea of your intentions. I'm sorry you can't enjoy a life worthy of the scholar you are. If circumstances were different, I would invite you to stay in my city." He smirked. "In exchange for your magical knowledge, of course."

Rivel laughed softly. "You old fox, I'm sure you would. But it looks like you know I have no choice." He looked at the Elder intently, probing to see how much he knew.

"I find it ironic that the Fateweaver can't weave his own fate. Even though you can't change things, at least I can help save you the pains of finding the path to your destiny."

"What do you mean?"

"I know where you're supposed to go. Of course, I don't know what's in there. If you were hoping for additional intel, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but oracles are often not that detailed." He made a small pause, giving time for Rivel to share those details himself, but found nothing. "It's okay, I don't need to know. You're lucky, if that word can really be applied to your case. The tangle of fates is a short two weeks from here on foot; the rations I gave you should suffice plenty."

Rivel felt his head spinning. Two weeks? In such an immense, unknown country, that was like being right next to each other! He started making hypotheses and conjectures about where Malcolm could be and what forces he could count on, rapidly throwing a volley of questions at Guffar.

"What's up there? Have you ever had any notable enemies attack your city, other than the Silkborne? Did the Oracle mention anything about a cat-like demi-human? What do you mean by tangle of fates? What-?" Guffar raised his hand.

"I cannot answer any of your questions, Rivel. I'm afraid there are mysteries no divination school can unravel. I wish you fortune in your endeavor and peace, whatever the conclusion."

Guffar retreated back to his city, accompanied by his escort, and Rivel felt he had to go too. As he passed through the inverted forest, sadness invaded his body. Leading his army of insects, for a moment, he felt like one of them and wished to relinquish this fate business that gave him so many bad feelings. Rivel had never been a man of intuition; his primary source of information was hard facts and well-constructed thought schemes.

He felt blood rush to his head, unable to find either regarding this feeling. Guffar and his Oracle, that corpseling, gave him nothing but chills. What if he took the Elder's offer? Why was he trying to save the Tenebri so hard? It's not like he ever found a real family among them, nor did he owe them anything. He was always a tool for them, and as long as he had lived, he played his part dutifully.

He looked to the side, at that monstrous thing that was Neith, with the eight void-filled eyes and the disgusting hairs, and that thing that wasn't a mouth but looked like one. He looked at her side, at a tiny version of herself, struggling to keep pace with the others. He saw spotted masons and workaholic, spindly-limbed weavers who, just a short month ago, were making beds for warmth and traps for food. He even saw the town's guard, shyly hiding his face among the multitude, ashamed of having sided with a Queen who almost led them to their doom.

He imagined guiding them to a promised land, just as he said, creating a new era for insect races, having a well-lit city protected by the arcane, taking care of disgusting, slimy eggs, and absent-mindedly eating flies, being happy. But that wasn't him.

He was a wolf in lamb's clothes; he took advantage of these small-minded, naive insects, preying on their despair to lead them into slaughter. He was a génocidaire, an outwardly monstrous creature who protected other warmongering monsters who pretended to be something else while indulging in sadism in every imaginable way.

Two weeks was too long to reach Malcolm and put an end to this pantomime.