This oasis was my home, the new glassy sheen not changing that in the least. As such, my bond to the glass – including my ability to somehow shape it – meant I could make a true home, though the cost in blood and sweat would be considerable. I would likely spend entire days shaping, blood flowing freely, mind muddled to dullness, but the result would be a place that was truly mine, in both form and function. I knew little of construction, the ins and outs of true artistry largely absent from my mind, yet my greatest advantage my undying age granted me was to learn. I could learn to craft beautiful, awe-inspiring works of crystal beauty if only I dedicated myself to it.

So I did.

Like all things, the beginnings were the foundation. I spent long weeks flattening, smoothing, and hardening the surface of my lakeside coast, the uneven crackled landscape replaced with smooth panes of opalescent crystal, the scattering of light leaving it resembling a splotch of rainbow in a sea of silverine. I learned that the crystal could become much of what I needed, switching between transparent, translucent, and opaque at the flick of my mind. So too did I learn of its strength, solid blocks of the material no less sturdy than the stained stone that lay beneath the mirrored surface.

Truly a marvelous material, all born from my foolishness.

I decided on a home above the waters of my rebirth, my shaping of the crystal easily allowing such a thing. Large pillars of hard white rose from the depths, more glass growing everyday as I pulled the glass from the surroundings, leaving pristine silver sands quickly replaced by glass behind. I flattened a hard plate of opaque white crystal between the four pillars, diagonal beams of support unfurling from the pillars under my guidance. A small hole remained at the very center of my worksite, the beam of mana that drove deep into the rock below smoothly falling through it.

I had learned my crystal could obstruct mana, if attuned right. Specific arrangements of opacity and coloration birthed crystal that grumbled at my commands, moving sluggishly rather than feverishly like the rest. Other mixes could produce completely contactless glass, perfect transparency and coloration resulting in panes that my commands went through, not into, leaving them entirely unusable.

The final mix I discovered – and now sat within the path of mana – was that of a lens. I knew much about light now, my bond leaking information to me as I slept and worked. I understood how light moved, the circumstances for its bending a matter of cosmic law, not simple technique. With the proper warping of glass, however, such light could be redirected, bounced like an acorn off a tree. The same could, if applied carefully, be done to mana streams, the thick torrent of energy acting akin to light. As such, I created lenses that focused the beam of mana, driving the energies closer and closer together until a thick beam of ardent sunlight streaked through the gap I had made, the crystal bordering it turning prismatic as mana oversaturated it. That beam drove deep into the cerulean waters below, shifting their hue and properties in strange, unknowable ways. I felt, however, that it was correct, somehow. A payment for the bounty I took from the same stream, perhaps? Maybe akin to planting a tree after chopping one down?

It mattered little. If my mana believed it a good deed, then it must be one.

My home took shape over the coming months, my skill in shaping growing greater and greater as I repeatedly exerted myself. By the end of my work, I could shape as fast as I could think, the liquidity of the silver glass entirely acclimated to my will. No strain found me then, no exertion of will. It was simple – I asked, and it acted. The home was a simple affair, if larger than I had any experience with. Two stories of open floors were connected by a staircase of thinly-covered wood – glass tools were useful. The top floor held a contemplation room, a sleeping room, and a simple relaxation room that held the stairs down. The ground floor was hitherto undecided.

What else did I need?

A cook-room was necessary, likely next to a harvest-room. A general room, perhaps? Did that defeat the purpose of the relaxation room? Did I plan for guests?

In the end, I made a simple cook-room with a stockpile of wood and sharpened glass tools, the connecting harvest-room having a flat surface and a series of grates for blood runoff. I didn’t know if there was anything to hunt around here but planning for it made sense.

Oh, a garden!

I ended up putting the garden around the beam, hoping the light would help whatever I planted grow. Finding dirt was difficult given the glass and sand, but some still sat beneath the lake’s surface, hidden amongst the rock. I had worried I would need to go across the lake to find some, the jagged far coast far less sandy than here. But with the garden complete, my home was largely complete – bereft of furniture, but complete. I sat out on the shaded front porch, a rough-hewn chair I had cobbled together letting me stare out over the gently lapping currents below me, my rainbow bridge to the coast mixed amongst the waves. They were stronger than usual, the outpouring of mana from the column of energy likely stirring the depths to greater motion. I trusted my mana, so I paid it little mind. I closed my eyes, leaning into the bulky chair, my hands tracing the grain on the arms. I was content with my abode, thankful I had a way of paying off my mistake in the lenses. It would take centuries given how long I was likely unconscious, but I had nothing but time.

The quiet evening began to shift to night, the sun finally seeking refuge behind the mountains in the far distance, little more than specks on a horizon. I couldn’t even see those specks from where I sat, the valley deep enough to hide them from sight entirely. Yet the day became amber all the same, colors deepening as pristine white became moody orange, the shades across the sands becoming increasingly abstract. The light interacted with the mana-rich sand in peculiar ways, even my bond with it unable to prevent some form of change. The glass was pure enough to stave it off, remaining mine and mine alone, yet the sand was not so lucky, the powers that be nudging them towards concepts I fleetingly understood. Some were simple – fire, water, air, rock. Others were strange – steam, gemstone, ores of all kinds. Others were abstract enough I only understood them when their emanations brushed up against my senses. The raw uninhibited fires of Hate. The gentle caress of Love. Something akin to analysis, numbers and formulae searing my senses before I pulled away. The cold, slow certainty of Entropy.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

I encountered dozens, each radically different from the last. Hundreds upon hundreds of whispers of truth, be they from emotions, universal law, or something even more esoteric. Some were literal whispers from beyond, things that disquieted my mind and revolted my mana, looking to promise, to cajole, to trick. Madness screamed from a cage not on this earth, the very concept of such a thing alien to its mind. Voices of those lost to time, a few even like those of my friends so long ago, mixed with the voices of those who have yet to come. All and more played across the sands, mere single grains shifting in the reddening light of sunset. Their change meant nothing, really. Dozens could change every moment and it would still amount to nothing, the pressure of the world’s mana scouring the influence from existence.

Yet the possibility remained. The whispers remained, their power waxing into the night as the sun’s influence waned. I sat transfixed as the energies crept into my focus, willing myself to remember every touch, every errant promise, every unprompted scream. There were stories within these traces, stories of ended worlds, dying peoples, and impossible genius. Stories that had never happened thanks to a twist of time, stories that always happened thanks to a twist of fate. All and more bled through the seams, mana’s breadth remarkable across them all. It always was there, shifting and changing as the story advanced onward. It united them all, a vessel through which the stories occurred at all, and how those same stories reached me. Even at its purest, mana carried the echoes of what it had been, was now, or would be, its very existence somehow divorced from time. I even sensed my own mana, the similarity a bare resemblance instead of a mirror. Was it me from another possibility or simply me in the future? I couldn’t tell, the sensation vanishing as abruptly as it arrived.

I leaned back, separating myself from the call of the unfiltered mana. Whereas the world mana that had embraced me had been resolute, solid, this was fleeting and ethereal, its source unknown even as I gazed up at the mottled stars above. If it came from somewhere out in the black, the madness would make sense. A world was merely a dot in the size of it all, after all, I knew that from my learned knowledge of the sun. All the dots I could see were suns of other places, different planets with different moons. The scale of existence was incredible, and if mana was universal, touching all the corners of the stars?

Confusing insanity was a reasonable response to such scale.

I coughed, a tickle of sand in my throat making me exert my will, forming glass windows in place for the porch. I liked the open sightlines and breeze, but the winds seemed to slight me at every opportunity, whipping sand all about. Even without the sun’s influence, it seemed that attitude was preserved, the night as rude as the day. I stood, planning to sleep in the impromptu-form-shaping pool of fluid-like glass I had managed to make – after three weeks of attempts – when I heard a peculiar noise. The winds had died down, the silence of the oasis deafening as even the waters stood still. I opened the porch door, striding out across my rainbow bridge as I tried to focus on the noise. It was intermittent, the noise akin to an exhalation of difficult breath. As I strode onto and up the valley’s lip, the noise became louder, now obvious as a gasp between wracking sobs. I searched more frantically, worried that someone might die directly due to my mistake. The small shards of glass that blew through the winds dangerous to all but me, their presence granting a slow, bloody death. I had tried to clear the air frequently, condensing the glass to larger chunks, yet even my efforts were not enough for the sheer scale of the glassed zone, the regions outside of the valley still largely unchanged since my awakening.

Long minutes of searching found a small cavern in the walls of the valley, the sound bouncing off the walls easily. I noted it might even be amplifying the noise, enabling me to hear it at all.

An interesting note, but for later.

I strode in confidently, little worry for myself. I had little need to worry given my immortality, but unless this person could outright kill me instantly, I would be able to help them in some way. Even nearly dead, I could dull the glass within them, forcing the shards to become flat and rounded rather than sharp and edged, letting them safely cough them up. Beyond that I could do little, though an attempt with my blood mana might be necessary if they were to truly approach death.

I was not prepared for what I found in a heap upon the cavern floor. It resembled a disproportionate little girl, her limbs too long and lacking the fat of youth. She was short, maybe half my height and then some. She lay in a ball on the floor, fresh and dried tears staining the cloth around her eyes as she sobbed, seemingly in her sleep. I frowned. What made someone do that?

I quietly approached, a simple hand against her shoulder letting me sense the glass within her. It was bad, yes, but likely not for several weeks. This sobbing was not born of pain – not physical pain, at least. This close, I noted the dried red flecks of blood surrounding the cloth on her eyes, a semblance of the picture coming together. It was not new, sending the undesirable to the Lifeless Lands, yet the blinding spoke to a cruelty I did not understand. Little survived out here even before the glass, so why was blinding necessary? Was it spite? Malice? Simple security?

The girl – unless such a thing had changed in the years of my slumber – shivered under my touch, the tears becoming more prominent. I drew back immediately, fearing hurting her more than I already had. In the same moment, I observed the oddly large ears, their length and grace ruined by missing pieces and clipped tips. The more I saw, the deeper my frown became.

Despite my touch, she remained asleep. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, but it gave me time to think. Should I try and help her? The answer was an obvious yes – I rarely saw more beaten-down people, even in the days of village pettiness – but how? She could live in my home, sure, but what of food? What of social needs? I could tell she needed time to herself, time to build herself back up, but my worries ran deeper than that. As with my home building, if the foundation truly failed, then it might not recover.

I snapped my fingers, making an impulsive decision. She could hate me all she wanted from the safety of my home. If I could simply help her not cry in her sleep, then that might be enough. I was being selfish too – the loneliness had worn on me even with my loner resilience, so company would be appreciated.

The first snap of my fingers barely ruffled her.

The second made her roll over and sniffle once.

The third – placed a short distance from her large right ear – had her snap upright and glare at me, a remarkable reaction given her presumed blindness.

Immediately the hostility fled, replaced by fear. A normal reaction, given her blindness and my ‘stealth’ skills. I don’t know if it counted as stealth when your target was out cold when sleeping, but it didn’t matter. She began to pull herself backwards with her scrabbling hands, seeking the deeper darkness of the cave. I simply stood still, staring down at her as she did so. After perhaps a foot of frantic, scrabbled movement, she stopped, glancing back at me as if seeing me clear as day. I tapped my foot, beginning a rhythmic tapping that she could, hopefully, both hear and feel through the rock, sensing my lack of pursuit.

“W-Who...?”