To Styx, meetings were a personal purgatory, tedious affairs to be avoided like the Labor and Delivery unit. However, as the deity overseeing Four Pales security operations, Styx couldn’t always dodge such necessary evils. Thankfully, she had minimized their frequency over the eons, relying instead on informative scroll summaries to preserve her sanity.
“Another stupid meeting?” Valerie slammed her sword down on the table.
“No weapons on the living wood!” Rowan snarled.
Valerie smirked before leaning it against the chair and settling in her seat. Styx let out a sign and sat down. At least the conference room had an ethereal edge, superior to its mundane counterparts.
A colossal tree entwined around gleaming metallic windows, allowing sunlight to spill across vine-laden walls. Fruit and foliage adorned every surface, cascading upward in a lush ascent.
The meeting table extended seamlessly from the tree itself—a flat, divinely shaped branch. Chairs transformed into pliable leaf bunches, whimsical yet functional, offering remarkable coziness. Gone were the stale corporate odors. Only the vibrant scents of life filled the space—pure, verdant, invigorating growth.
“I see you’ve worn your meeting best, Styx,” Sorcha said, sitting next to Valerie.
It was true Styx had taken extra care to match her surroundings. “Yep, this tunic is woven from petals found in Horai, makes my boobs look great.”
Sorcha leaned closer. “Is that silver along the neckline?”
“It is, from the Mines of Moria. My best purchase if I say so.” Styx adjusted the blouse.
“Was this meeting about discussing clothes?” Valerie asked. “Because I got these gauntlets on sale.”
She slammed them down on the table and grinned wildly. Styx glared before Valerie surrendered and slid them onto her wrists.
“Sorcha,” Styx said. “What do the fairies have to say?”
“They have recorded seven disappearances, and demon sightings have increased.”
“On top of the twelve children of the night,” Valerie added, adjusting the gauntlets.
“Three Kitsune have vanished,” Rowan chimed in.
“Five banshees also,” Sorcha said.
“Any leads?” Styx asked.
Sorcha shook her head. “Absolutely none. We’ve already subjected the usual suspects to thorough interrogation.”
Valerie cracked her knuckles. “Very, very thoroughly.”
“We can’t discover where the demons are hiding, their specific powers, anything,” Rowan said. “Nothing. It’s like they appear, kidnap a creature, and vanish.”
Styx twirled the bone fidget toy between her fingers. The cool bone was comforting as she spun it. The parchment before her listed the names of the missing. “And what are the realms doing?”
“Mobilizing,” Valerie said, her voice laced with resolve. “Shadow Hunters have been called. They’ll collaborate with each realm and consult us soon.”
“Naturally,” Sorcha declared. “We are divine beings.”
Rowan quirked an eyebrow. “Speak for yourselves. You’re gods, I’m cursed, there is a difference.”
With theatrical flair, Sorcha sent tendrils of mist swirling whimsically through the air. “Yet you still have phenomenal cosmic power!”
Valerie snorted and high-fived Sorcha. Styx, however, launched a crumpled piece of parchment in their direction.
“Let’s focus,” she said sharply, tapping her charcoal pen on the table. “We have a big problem on our hands.”
Rowan extracted a bag from her side, her eyes narrowing as the faintest touch of dark purple colored her fingers. With a slow, deliberate movement that felt like a sinister rite, she released its contents onto the table.
A dozen small bones clattered across the surface with ominous finality. For an instant, the room’s vibrant colors dimmed, and a chill shuddered through the leaves, as if the air itself recoiled from an unsettling omen.
[https://i.imgur.com/Z4a9yxJ.png]
“This is the beginning,” Rowan said, her voice airy as her eyes became bottomless pools of white. “We’ll witness terrible events, and soon.” Her words were not mere sounds; they felt gritty, like gravel underfoot, seeming to coat the room in frost. “Death will take a half-form.”
Sorcha let out a sardonic laugh. “That sounds suspicious.”
Styx shuddered at the idea. “It sounds like a perpetual nightmare. Give me the finality of true death any day.”
The magic faded from Rowan and she gestured to a cluster of knuckle bones on the wood. “This indicates a thwarted death, a process interrupted or frozen. Take it as you will.”
Sorcha shrugged. “We should concentrate on protecting Earth. That’s where we are most powerful.”
Valerie tapped on the table. “Crises have a knack for transcending realms. Remember the fool who assassinated Franz Ferdinand? That debacle started in another realm and finished here.”
“I would have thought you’d be all for that, War?” Sorcha eyed her.
Val popped her knuckles. “Personally, I loved it, but it shouldn’t have happened that way. That damn sprite got in and messed with that poor kid’s mind.”
“We need to be vigilant and lend our power where it’s needed,” Styx said. “We are still powerful, magical beings. Now let’s talk strategy.”
##
[https://i.imgur.com/o6j1kj0.png]
Caleb exhaled slowly, a contented grin emerging as tension seeped from his shoulders. Finally, the basement was ready. Nothing thrilled his scholarly soul more than basking in the communion between nib and notebook, uncovering mystical secrets lost to time. With a snort of glee, he settled into his old, faithful armchair, which had witnessed more than any seat should have.
Spread out before him were the sacred scriptures of his life: fresh notebooks, a kaleidoscope of pens, fuzzy socks, and a bowl of garlic cheese popcorn. Prepared and eager, he was ready.
With care, he lifted the manuscript that had beckoned to him for years, “The Ephemeral Grimoire: Unveiling the Veiled Realms of the Occult,” written by one of his favorite historians.
He could still remember where he found it, a tiny shop in Seoul. Somehow, a European grimoire ended up in South Korea. The shopkeeper didn’t even recall where he picked it up. Not that he was complaining. He’d gotten a fantastic deal.
The cover cracked as he eased it open, more excited than words could express. The world ceased to exist, leaving only the rasping symphony of pen on paper, and the whisper of turning pages.
Busy recording his notes, he moved to turn the page when his fingers brushed against an anomaly—a texture out-of-place amid the well-worn parchment.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The girl flashed into his mind again. But this vision was brief, only showing him a glimpse before she was yanked away. A shiver pirouetted down his spine. That same heat from earlier simmered just below the surface.
“A treasure?”
Tucked between the pages was an unexpected scrap of aged vellum. Its edges, worn and golden, seemed kissed by centuries gone by. The parchment felt soft and fragile in his hands. An arcane, musty aroma confirmed its ancient origins.
“What do we have here?” he whispered, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the developing mystery.
“Should I read it?” With bated breath, he unfolded the sheet. It crinkled like a sigh after years of confinement.
“Should I not?”
Script inked onto its surface flickered almost imperceptibly. He assumed it was the uncertain light or the vellum’s age.
“I really shouldn’t.” With a final minute flair, the lettering settled, and the phrases became visible. “Clamo, meaning to call forth.”
When he read that line aloud, the air prickled his skin. Alarmed, he looked up, expecting to see a specter standing above him. “I have a feeling this is going to be a bad idea.”
Still, the curious scholar inside of him didn’t stop. The next line referred to death, the inked word mortem flashing dark. As that sentence slipped from his lips, the lights dimmed almost imperceptibly.
“I don’t have magic, so there’s no harm!” Caleb declared with naïve confidence, finishing the incantation with an exhilarating mix of excitement and apprehension coursing through his veins. Not even a spark resided within; surely he couldn't cause any damage.
Finishing the spell, his voice wavered, giving life to the ancient syllables that hadn’t graced human ears in years—perhaps centuries. It appeared as if the world itself had noted this irrevocable act. As the last word echoed in the basement, he felt the ground beneath him subtly shift.
##
Styx shuffled the papers on the desk. This meeting was useful but lengthy. Valerie was fidgeting, Sorcha’s eyes were drooping, and Rowan kept talking to the tree table.
“Great work,” Styx said, putting her charcoal pen down.
“Yeah.” Valerie stretched her arms up, cracking her back and neck in several places. “We still have more questions than answers.”
“And no idea where the demons are,” Sorcha added.
Before Styx said anything else, something inside her changed. An alien magic pulsed intrinsically through her immortal form, ever familiar yet now disturbed. This was different. It was as though an invisible thread, finer than gossamer, but as unbreakable as mithril, wove around her.
“This…” She rubbed her chest.
Prickling tingles with a sinister edge spread across her body, as if her immortal flesh itself was recoiling from a foreign invader. Needles of unease danced along her spine as she rubbed her arms, unable to pinpoint the source of distress.
Another razor shard of discomfort pierced her core, independent of the enchantments woven into her very essence. This came from without, not within. A sinister magic was surveilling, circling her. But she was Death, and didn’t know what it meant to be prey.
Did the hunted experience these same sensations?
It was drawing her nearer to an unknown, yet irresistible, force. It was unsettling, a profound sensation that was impossible to ignore. For an instant, Styx felt a shiver of fate caressing the nape of her neck. A wordless whisper that destiny wove, a grand tapestry in the making.
“Death,” Rowan spoke, locking eyes with her.
“I know,” Styx murmured. Sprouts of her power appeared, probing at the elusive magic that had ensnared her.
Both Sorcha and Valerie froze, their bodies ridged, as if touched by an invisible, icy hand.
Sorcha’s eyes, usually dancing with mischievous light, now dilated into wide, moon-like orbs. She raised her thin fingers, an indistinct murmur slipping from her lips as tendrils of mist curled around her wrists, ready to materialize into a spell at a moment’s notice.
Valerie clenched the pommel of her sword, her wings quivering. Her eyes narrowed, glowing a deeper hue of their usual fiery radiance, as though the essence of some ancient battle ember was reigniting within her.
For the first time in eons, an unfamiliar urge to flee seized her and overpowered reason. Every cell screamed to escape the unseen threat, an involuntary response born on some primeval plane. Had this been what the trembling rabbit felt moments before the wolf's jaws clamped down?
[https://i.imgur.com/qu3GHBR.png]
She had only ever been the predator before, never truly understanding the chilling fear that now consumed her. The deafening thud of her heart in her ears, the scent of terror, the quiver of muscle. This dread was new, mortal, and completely unwelcome.
Her magic stirred, reacting to emotions long forgotten. But she commanded here! Death would not cower, though this dread was new. Even wolves learned to fear her claws.
“I don’t like it,” Styx said, squirming. Her body was now a conflicting torrent of sensations.
“I haven’t felt something like this in a long time,” Rowan said, her voice dreamy and distant.
Styx rubbed her chest. Unlike the warm, steady glow of her own essence, this new magic was foreign. It was a discordant note spreading outward, sending alien shivers down her spine and tingles to the tips of her fingers.
Still buried beneath its jarring notes, she detected a faint undertone. A half-spoken promise beckoned from the future, offering secrets yet uncovered.
Rowan rose and moved toward Styx, dark purple splashing off the ground. She extended, as if trying to palpate the invisible forces at work. “It’s old…A Creator’s spell.”
“No,” Styx whispered. “That’s not possible.” Her fists clenched, snapping the charcoal pen snapped in two, the sound a sharp counterpoint to the mounting tension.
As a being with formidable power, she crafted destinies and wielded control over the elements at her will. She played with the fundamental essence of reality; bound only by ancient laws she couldn’t break.
She met Rowan’s eyes and searched for something that could provide an alternative explanation. Because the implications of a Creator’s spell, true to its name, could rewrite the very nature of their existence.
“I can feel its age.”
Styx’s hand flew to her chest, her fingers splayed as if she could contain the wild magic rising inside her.
“It wants to claim you,” Rowan breathed, her words laced with a dread that clawed at the air. “War, Famine.”
Styx struggled to breathe, each inhalation a futile battle against an invisible force that constricted her from within. Her thoughts whirled and fragmented, elusive as autumn leaves carried away by a merciless wind.
Rowan pointed to a section on the wall behind Styx. “Famine, focus your energies there. War, stand by to ignite the air when I command.”
Valerie’s eyes sparkled as she unsheathed her short sword, the blade singing a siren song of carnage and bloodlust.
Styx, in her fight for breath, had no space to savor the battle hymn she cherished. Her knuckles whitened around the table’s edge, every inhale a stolen victory.
Rowan climbed onto the table before Styx, her fingers dancing in arcane gestures as she whispered incantations. With each gesture, more dark purple moved and flowed.
Her voice quickened, her eyes rolling back until only the whites showed, blinking so rapidly it bordered on frenetic. A pulsating wave of dark power crawled its way across its surface, moving with predatory intent toward Styx.
“Famine.”
Behind Styx, Sorcha didn’t speak, yet the room’s atmosphere suddenly filled with the stomach-turning aroma of decay. An unsettling blend of decomposing flesh and putrid sustenance.
Valerie was tense, bouncing on her toes, her poised sword a deadly extension of her hand.
Rowan continued to chant; the words reached a feverish pitch. She broke open a pouch, spreading fine particles that sizzled when they met the wood.
Styx clung to the table’s edge as if it were her last anchor in a capsizing world. She felt Famine’s powers corrupting the wall behind her, the wall disintegrating into a repulsive sludge that oozed across the floor.
And then the air froze, held in a spectral grip. The power in the room rebelled, chaotic and furious, lashing out at the surroundings.
As the Creator magic spilled across her skin, Styx knew a portal had formed. A whirling vortex, its palette of muted grays and icy blues obscuring whatever truths lay beyond.
“War!” Rowan shouted.
“By the Creators! Let blood fall!” Valerie catapulted herself skyward, her trajectory a perfect arc. Her sword clashed against a gauntlet, releasing a cascade of dazzling sparks, each one snapping and fizzling as it intersected with the magical energies.
“No,” Rowan whispered, a single syllable heavy with impotence and regret.
Styx understood. There was no turning back. Regardless of the powers Pestilence wielded, or the defiance War and Famine could muster, she was being inexorably drawn away. In that inescapable moment, her truest nature was being irresistibly summoned forth.
Fear snaked around her chest, an alien sensation after eons of divine certainty. Once forgotten, now the feeling drowned her like a relic resurrected from another lifetime. Her heart raced in a most ungodlike manner; the vulnerability anchored deeper with each frantic beat. This dread weighed her down more heavily than the souls of worlds, too potent even for a deity of immense power to shake off.
Capturing Death could mean the end of the very concept of mortality. Were such ruinous power now in the grasp of the demons? Another sharp bolt of fear pierced her celestial heart at the possibility.
The slight, insidious pull had intensified into relentless pressure. This invisible force was not a simple command; it was a suffocating demand that tasted of brimstone and smelled like the acrid burn of a lightning-struck tree.
It seeped into her very essence, demanding her immediate surrender and her eternal servitude. For a deity of finality, this was an abomination—an affront to her nature.
“Death,” Rowan’s voice, tinged with urgency, hastened to her side.
“No!” Valerie lunged forward.
“Quick,” Famine urged.
The trio united their immense powers, weaving them into a tangible force. Yet Styx knew, even with their divine potency, they would falter. This magic was a ravenous abyss, swallowing all light, all hope.
Then she felt her body receding, inching backward as if the fabric of the universe itself was contracting. Valerie’s muscles bulged with celestial strength, every sinew straining. The incantations spilling from Rowan’s lips disintegrated into the oppressive air. Sorcha’s somber energies, too, were futile.
Styx retreated faster now, the force insatiable, unyielding.
As Death was pulled back, Rowan stared. Their gaze locked, and her expression conveyed a silent admission of failure in its depths.
Styx wanted to reach out, to utter words that could relieve the burden of self-blame from Rowan’s shoulders. But her voice remained captive; the very magic pulling her away had shackled her lips. As the force carried her backwards, Rowan’s anguished face offered her a last glimpse in this realm, etched with a blend of regret and sorrow.
And then, like a dying star, everything dimmed, imploding into darkness. Death became lost.