> When all else fails there's always delusion. - Conan O'Brien

The first sensation he felt as he descended into the groove was palpable darkness, thick enough to be cut by a knife. But the young demon barely took another step before the walls and floor erupted in a neon-green glow as if stirred awake by his presence. Mushrooms—sprouting from crevices and corners—illuminated the path before him.

"Hmm, a welcome party, it seems I'm expected," he mused, his feet quickening on the damp earth. He unsheathed his sword, holding it aloft. Even in the strange, ethereal light, the steel glinted like a shard of moonlight.

Rounding a bend, he stepped into what appeared to be a chamber. It had the atmosphere of an enchanted theatre, a surreal auditorium carpeted in luminescent flora and occupied by ethereal beings. A cloud of Sylphids hovered, their gossamer wings beating in a symphony of light and shade. But his gaze drifted from them to the far side of the chamber.

There, like timeless sentinels, stood three Dryads.

They were an embodiment of woodland power—tall, muscular, their flesh-like bark yet alive and pulsating. One could almost hear the ancient hymns of nature written in the sinews of their arms and legs. Their eyes, sharp as newly-forged arrowheads, scanned everything—yet revealed nothing.

Dressed in skins and leaves, they seemed as though they'd sprouted from the earth, a corporeal echo of the woods they belonged to. The fungi around them danced in and out of focus as if reluctant to shed light on these beings.

Their dreadlocked hair crowned them, woven not just with strands but also the shadows of countless dawns and dusks. Stern didn't begin to describe their expressions—it was as if they'd harvested and refined grimness itself.

"So, a fledgling in the flesh. How quaint," said one, her voice a sibilant refrain in a song filled with hidden barbs, "a new spirit born."

He clenched the hilt of his sword tighter, acknowledging her with a nod as muted as the glow that surrounded him.

"My time is short," he retorted, each syllable strung with a rush of urgency. "I seek your aid."

"Why would we lend aid to a spirit we've yet to know?" Her question dripped like honey laced with venom.

"A firefly," he said, almost embarrassed by the simplicity of his request amid the weight of the atmosphere, "That's all I need."

"You bear a weapon in your search for a bug," another Dryad observed, nodding at his unsheathed sword.

"Yet, you see, the blade is unused," he shot back. "I'd say we're all winning, wouldn't you?"

Time hung in the chamber, a pause that felt heavy enough to tip the scales of eternity. The Sylphids continued their mute vigil. The mushrooms glowed brighter, yet dimmer, as though oscillating to some cosmic rhythm. Finally, the middle Dryad broke the deadlock.

"Your request is granted," she conceded, "but tread carefully. Simplicity can be a deceiving mask."

"What's the cost? I don't even have a name to offer."

"But you have a mission," she countered. "And what weighs more—a name or a fate?"

"To purge the world of the forbidden —that's my raison d'être," he clarified.

"And yet, if that were entirely true, you'd not be standing here—you'd be destroyed," another Dryad quipped.

"Choice isn't my privilege. I was designed with a purpose—peace for Nyu," he said, growing agitated. "The destruction of the Hollow."

"I see who your Master is, Baal Berith. He made last time the same promise."

"And here I am to fulfil it."

"And why, young demon, do you require this firefly?" The first Dryad circled back to the initial question.

His feet dug into the mossy floor, frustration flaring. "I don't know, okay? I was not created to question. I was made to fulfil. I only know it will cause pain, and for some absurd reason, I fear that. Isn't that enough for you?"

His eyes swept over the assembly, resting again on the Dryads. "I have nothing to trade. It's winter. You harbour the fireflies. Finnea saw them. I need just one. Is that so hard to grant?"

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The chamber was silent for a heartbeat, and then, "Not hard, but not without consequence either," the middle Dryad finally said. "You shall have your firefly, fledgling. May it light your path, whether to doom or deliverance."

As she spoke, a firefly appeared—a glowing ember adrift in the shadowy chamber, floating toward him like a tiny star ripped from the night sky. It landed gently on his outstretched palm.

Cupping the fragile firefly gently between his hands, he felt its warmth seep through his fingers as if even this tiny creature carried a fragment of the universe's enduring fire. His eyes lifted one final time to the Dryads. They nodded, an unspoken pact sealed in that fleeting moment.

Then, they began to fade, their forms unravelling into tendrils of mist and shadow that twined with the surrounding foliage. It was as though the forest itself reached out and drew them back into its eternal embrace. They dissolved into the trunks and roots, the leaves and vines until only the resonant echo of their presence remained. They were one with the forest, an extension of its ageless soul.

Just as they belonged to something greater, he was a spoke in a larger wheel. He belonged to the Master of the Memory Tower.

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At the Memory Tower, Merlin, unfazed by the situation, snored lightly in a makeshift sitting position, his old bones creaking like the branches of an old wrinkled oak.

Beside him were Bram, with worry lines already etching his face, and Kirara, her tail flicking anxiously in the dim air.

"If we don't make a move for breakfast soon, my mum's going to turn this place upside down looking for me," Bram whispered, stealing a glance at the stairwell as if expecting his mother to appear at any moment.

Kirara's ears twitched, and her tail coiled tighter around her legs. "I can't linger here much longer either. They'll notice I'm gone."

The two turned their eyes toward Merlin, who chose that moment to awaken with a drawn-out yawn. He blinked, scanning his surroundings before settling his gaze on the two restless figures beside him.

"What's the plan?" Kirara asked, hope glinting in her eyes as if the old man would unfurl a scroll with all the answers written in gold and chicken.

"Why don't you both head back, grab a bite, and assure everyone that all is well? Tell them, if they ask, I've fallen into one of my deep slumbers. It's not far from the truth, anyway," Merlin suggested, his voice laced with sleepy humour.

Kirara pondered this. "Why don't I go first, eat quickly, and then return? Then Bram could go?"

Bram shook his head. "No, it would look suspicious if we're not seen together. We've been practically inseparable since ever. We are best friends!"

"We are?"

"Yeah! Why? I'm not?" the little Nixbob pointed to himself.

"Yes, of course, you are, after Mama and Papa... and chicken," Kirara sighed. "But you're right. We must be together; otherwise, too many questions."

Merlin leveraged himself to a more upright position, bones popping audibly. "Go on, both of you. Eat, reassure everyone, and return. I'll be right here, guarding our... little secret," he said, his eyes tired as they darted toward the empty jars around them.

The younger pair exchanged glances, then nodded. They quickly descended the stairs, leaving the old man alone in the half-light. Merlin chuckled softly, leaning back against the cool stone wall.

"Ah, to be young and burdened by something as simple as breakfast," he mused.

As Merlin's eyes closed, he felt the Memory Tower settle into a comforting silence, the kind of quiet that seemed to hold its breath. However, it was a short-lived tranquillity; the door creaked open again.

On the threshold stood a young demon, its eyes vacant pools of darkness. Yet there, cupped gently in its hands, was a softly glowing firefly.

Merlin was quick to lock the door behind the newcomer. "Where are Finnea and Tower?" His voice betrayed a hint of concern.

"They are here, and they are not. It is me now," the demon tried to articulate, its voice tinged with an inexplicable melancholy.

Merlin raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Do you have a name?"

"I have a firefly."

The old man chuckled. "I see you've brought what I need, but who are you? Who has come to my aid?"

"I don't see anyone else here. It's just me," the demon responded, almost defensively.

"Your name?" Merlin pressed.

"I don't have one. Do you?"

"Ah, I go by many names, but Myrddin is the earliest. Most people butcher it, so they call me Merlin."

The demon looked puzzled. "So my name is Merlin now?"

Merlin laughed, shaking his head. "No, no! Merlin is my name!"

"Oh... then I'm still unnamed."

"You're an odd one, aren't you?" Merlin let out another chuckle, his eyes twinkling like stars in the dim chamber. "Let the firefly go. Let it fly."

The Unnamed open his hands and watching the firefly spiralled away, Merlin's voice unfurled like an ancient scroll, uttering incantations that resonated like a harmonic tune.

Simultaneously, his staff glowed, taking on a pulsating light that mirrored the lone firefly's ethereal glow. Then, as if heeding some unspoken command, the glow fractured and multiplied—two fireflies, then four, eight, ten, twenty and more—each glowing orb a doppelganger of the original, yet unique in its own right.

As Merlin's incantation reached its zenith, each replicated firefly fluttered downwards, gently guided by some unseen hand into waiting jars. One by one, they settled, their lights continuing to blink in unison as though bound by some cryptic language.

Merlin exhaled, a wistful smile curving his lips. "Ahh, the wonders of old magic," he sighed, looking pleased.

Merlin's smile was big but short. As his gaze shifted from the jars, their luminescent occupants suddenly dimmed, each flickering glow succumbing to cryptic darkness until nothing remained but the opaque emptiness of the jars.

"Oh, this can't be good," he muttered, a tinge of foreboding darkening his voice. His fingers ticked off imaginary points in the air as he mentally retraced the intricate steps of the incantation. "I'm certain I executed the proper spell."

The nameless demon, already a complex puzzle of emotions and new sensations, looked even more bewildered. "What now?"

Merlin sighed, his eyes narrowing in thought. "We need stronger magic than mine, it appears."

"How so?"

The old wizard paused, weighing his words as if each held a secret weight. "We need a miracle from Atua."

"Who?"

"A Morningstar."