Sorrinn burst through the front gate of his house in his hurry. He verged on doing the same to the front door, but caught himself. If he barged in panicking, Maeve would question him and he really didn’t want to have to lie to her. Thus he paused, breathed, and composed himself before stepping inside.
It ultimately didn’t matter since his mother didn’t appear to be home. Upon seeing the general room vacant and hearing silence, he loudly called out to her. The silence endured. She must’ve stepped out into the village for something. It was disconcertingly odd for the childish parts of his brain to find an empty house, but the maturer parts always assumed she was only home so much because she needed to be available for him. He was getting older, the absent episodes had ceased, and he was becoming more independent and capable. Reason all he wanted, he still wandered the house, checking every room to affirm nothing was wrong following his odd encounter with the colorless, black-sclerad boy.
Everything was fine—no lurking crime scenes in waiting. She just wasn’t home. Neither was Orrillimmirr, but he knew that. When his father wasn’t lecturing him in the ways of Elven Common, he was somewhere sequestered in the northern woodlands during the day, observing the deviant Celpi he mentioned a few months back. His father didn’t talk much about what was going on on that front, so Sorrinn didn’t have the details. All he knew was that it was an ‘astonishing occurrence’ and it ‘potentially posed a great threat to the village.’ The alarm had sounded at least once a week across the heat season; that was a sure sign something was going on in the northern woodlands. Monsters and beasts were fleeing in droves and the village guards were on high alert because of it.
That said, he was on his own. He headed straight to his father’s study for answers.
Browsing the shelves, eyes narrowed in rumination, he didn’t know the Elven Common word for Apotheos. There was no dice on that front. However, the boy referred to someone named The Sagacious Mother. His first thought was that it was another name for The Illumination—similar to The Ancestor. Then he thought back to what the boy said in full: “Sit and observe as I tear yet another of your little saplings’ roots from this seedbed of yours, o’ Sagacious Mother.” The little sapling in The Illumination’s seedbed was him as one of Their Luminaries. That meant an Apotheos must’ve been a term for individuals who were the vehicle of a deity’s power. The boy—or whatever he or it was—was hunting Luminaries. Sorrinn was on his hit list because he just happened to be an Apotheos of The Illumination—a Mystic Luminary.
He recalled Orrillimmirr mentioning there being a proper tale about the Nine Luminaries. He kept an eye open for the number nine in any of the tome titles as he browsed for the correct book. That was a word he knew well. And soon, he spied what he sought. “Legend of the Nine…” he read aloud in the melodic cadence of a foreign language, intrigued.
Reaching his hand, a distorting force enveloped the book. It slid free from its niche on the shelf and glided to the floor. He sat before it cross-legged, opening to the first page. Thankfully, it wasn’t anything too complex—a simplified retelling of Elven history in the form of an epic tale. The story mirrored what Orrillimmirr described: A tale of nine stellar sages descended from the blood of the night’s brightest star, who descended to the material plane from the cosmos bearing wisdom which would permit mortal life to perform unfounded miracles. Each ethereal descendant presided over a unique aspect of The Mystic Force and accepted anyone or anything willing to imbibe upon their wisdom as disciples.
When they said anything, they meant anything. There was one portion where the Luminary of Alteration accepted a literal tree as a disciple, which somehow went on to evolve into a sapient being called an Entrati. The original Luminary of Creation disseminated their wisdom to all manner of wild animals more so than they did the intelligent races.
Despite its simplicity even a child could follow, it bore an epic’s length and structure, following each of the Luminaries’ individual journeys as they traveled and experienced the world. A common theme amongst them, all but one of the nine’s stories concluded in the same way: They were hunted down and executed by the self-eroding agents of the primordial antithesis of their forebear—The Void. Silhouettes, they were termed in the book—those who willingly plunged into the deepest depths of the End and forfeited everything to The Void for the chance to unify with Its hollow essence. Forsaken hosts to the likes of Corruption, Silence, Madness, Dread, Horror, Voracity, Finality, Infinity, and Nothingness, they were shadows damned to inevitably fade into the all-devouring black. The white-hot dregs of lingering purpose were their sole lifeline preventing them from immediate erasure amidst the End’s maelstrom toward absence.
The one surviving Luminary—the Luminary of Conjuration—vanished before the conclusion of their story. It was soon after they learned of their siblings’ deaths at the hands of the Silhouettes, and they were never seen again. It was clarified in the book that no other Luminaries of Conjuration had ever risen unlike the reborn Luminaries of the other aspects. Thus it was believed he was still alive somewhere and in hiding.
That was… disconcerting. Skimming through the pages about their adventure-filled and full lives, reading of their journeys to not only disseminate mystic wisdom but to also discover what it meant to be a living, feeling, experiencing thing, simply for it all to spiral into years of running, hiding, looking over their shoulder, unabating fear, and ultimately ending with death as they were chased like rabbits. Especially since he was just attacked by one of them posing as an Elven child. He was hardly five. At least let him hit double digits before otherworldly dark entities started trying to murder him. And if the original Luminaries weren’t strong enough to surmount the Silhouettes, what chance did he have?
He paused in his contemplation, thought-narrowed eyes shifted sideways. Then again, if that were the case, why hadn’t it finished him off while his throat was in its grip? The Color of All Things, it’d mentioned. That prismatic flame—the energies of the soul. That was the difference between him and his predecessors: his nature as a reincarnated soul made his spirit far more robust and ardent than it otherwise would’ve been. His and Caleb’s ‘souls’ had amalgamated into something greater than the sum of their parts, so The Void’s influence wasn’t—immediately—lethal to him in the way it was to everyone else. He already held all of the tools that would allow him to defend himself.
That was why The Illumination sought him out and offered him the seed as he drifted in the darkness. They needed to alter Their strategy in the fight against The Void. The Luminary mantle, The System, the skills, the insight into his capabilities and potential, the ability to evolve himself in unnatural ways; they were manufacturing a new breed of Apotheos capable of creating their own edge and fighting back. Because if the Silhouettes were targeting every seed The Illumination had ever sown in the material world, that conquest didn’t end after the Luminaries were dead. Every sapient race and all lifeforms capable of harnessing the mystic arts were next. His mother, his brother, and his father were next.
Just how deep did The Illuminations plans dwell? Was everything he’d done already cast in the stone of Their foresight?
Everything about his circumstances were finally beginning to make sense. It wasn’t a game, and he wasn’t lucky; all of it was part of a Paragon’s strategy. He was just the means to Their end, who happened to get repeatedly stabbed in front of a Seven-Eleven at the key moment. Albeit, he couldn’t say he was eager to be lumped into a conflict between deific entities, he had accepted the seed. He chose to live again. Not once did he stop and question what the stipulations of his reincarnation were. It was his life, and he was going to preserve it at all costs—even if that meant being something of a soldier.
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He was still alive, so the Silhouette was bound to return—sooner than later, he presumed. It’d be easiest to take him behind the barn while he was still a toddler, after all. That seemed like something he needed to share with his parents. If anyone knew how to keep him safe until he had the chance to grow up, master his magic, and defend himself, it was Orrillimmirr.
Until his parents returned, he had to settle for himself for results. Sorrinn stood, eyes searching heavenward as he organized his thoughts. “Uh… I don’t know if you’re listening, but… I’ll be your Luminary. I want to learn. I’m ready to learn. Teach me.”
A whisper sighed into his ear. Something’s presence quickly lured his focus behind himself. There was a house cat perched atop his father’s desk, unconcernedly licking at its paw amidst its purrs. Well, he thought it was a cat. Its coat was notably long even for a long-haired breed and was a purplish jet black so dark, it barely reflected light. The only thing differentiating it from a cat-shaped silhouette was the semi-luminescent, dark purple outline sheening on its fur. Nine tails twice as long as itself fluidly grooved behind it with a mesmerizing motion kindred to undulating, rising smoke. Stellar specks like glimmering stars embellished the void of its coat, its ears were big and fan-like with elongated tufts of radiant silver hair climbing from the tips, and its eyes were heterochromic—one silver and the other gold. Most peculiar of all, it bore a third eye mounted on its forehead—iris an animated reddish-purple like oil spilled into the ocean.
The cat yawned big, directing an incredulous glance toward nowhere in particular. It scoffed beneath its breath. “The cat? It? One’s given name is Izebeus, one will have you know. That is ‘he’ to you.”
A question mark sprouted over Sorrinn’s head. He rubbed his eyes to affirm he wasn’t going crazy.
Izebeus tsked. Seeing the perplexity wearing Sorrinn’s face, he sighed as he swept his head sideways. He kept focus on the boy from the corner of his silver eye. “Pay one’s ramblings no heed, child.” A paw raised to his chest in formal greeting. “One is Izebeus, a Luminary’s Muse. One is an honored servant to the exalted one you refer to as ‘The Illumination.’ One has always hovered by your side, yes, but you’ve only become capable of perceiving one’s presence at this moment.” He donned an adorable little cat smirk.
A sharp, condemnatory glance whipped toward nothing in particular. “Excuse me? Adorable? Little?” He rolled his exasperated eyes. “One will not stand for such bold-faced defamation and slander of one’s character.” His claws balefully protruded from their fluffy sheaths as he growled: “Correct it at once or else.”
Wait… Me?
“Who else scribes the words of fate?”
Uh, what? How are you doing this? This shouldn’t be possible.
“Don’t make me repeat myself. Don’t believe you’re safe merely because you reside in a godless backwater, scribe.”
S-Sorry. It won’t happen again— Sir…
Izebeus donned an adorable little cat smirk.
Izebeus donned a beguiling smirk denoting his air of ethereality and mystery. “Mm, now that’s better, yes. Smart scribe.”
“Now where was I— Ah, yes: Now you have fully donned the mantle of the Luminary of Creation.”
A muse? As in a supernatural source of inspiration and revelation? Then that meant, “You’re the one who guided me through that fire spell I winged?”
“Indeed. Behind every Luminary stands a Muse who endows upon them the long-cultivated wisdom of The Illumination. From now until the moment you perish, one shall remain bonded to your soul.” Izebeus stood and slowly sauntered across the desk’s edge with mysterious grace. He came upon a fountain pen left by a piece of scroll parchment, eyeing it curiously before swatting it off the desktop. It clattered against the hardwood and rolled. The venerable Izebeus was completely justified in that profound action. “Dastardly thing,” he scoffed.
He parked his rump on the parchment. “Now, about that loathsome zealot conjured from the gutters of the End: A null existence’s sole weaknesses are The Sustainer’s Radiance and Origin, what the sludge vessel referred to as the Color of All Things. Radiance cannot be created by way of Creation, unfortunately—only borrowed and positioned through Conjuration. That substance lies in The Sustainer’s domain and it must be petitioned for by any who wield it.
“However, The Illumination went through great efforts to procure you for a reason you’ve already ascertained. Your memories and experiences of the other-place transformed into a most potent kindling for the innate Origin within you. To exist as a Silhouette is to discard one’s Origin and swap it with the equivalent of an all-devouring black hole. Introducing Origin to an absent existence is as lethal as a light-nurtured being having their Flame of Origin snuffed. Your origin-infused magic will be more than adequate enough to make child’s play of the absent vermin once and for all. Next time, save the questions for the afterlife and attack with prejudice.”
Sorrinn teasingly smiled. “Should a familiar of The Illumination be discouraging curiosity?”
“All things attached to The Void lead to nothingness. The only noise acceptable from a shadow is a deathly wail.”
A bead of sweat rolled over Sorrinn’s brow. “O-Okay. Noted…”
“Now, shall we get started, child?”
“With?”
“Even the Luminaries must toil and be guided into achieving their potential. Now that the Silhouette has set its focus on you in particular, we must make haste lest your tale concludes the same as your predecessors.” Izebeus’s whiskers shriveled and his body shivered with an apprehensive look in his trio of eyes. “One will be in for quite the thrashing if one allows another Luminary to be killed young on one’s watch.”
“Okay… I don’t want to die either. What do I have to do?”
Izebeus stepped onto the fabric of space beyond the area of the desk. Ripples echoing beneath his paws as he walked, he ambled across the open air. “Make yourself comfortable and don’t resist one’s influence. As time does not stand with us, one’s methods of achieving equilibrium will be… harsh.”
Sorrinn didn’t like the sounds of that.
“One is aware of your youth, but try not to be a child.”
A spark of shock raced across Sorrinn’s expression. “Can you read my mind?”
Izebeus snorted an incredulous sound. “Read your mind? Don’t be a fool; one peruses the words of fate as they’re scribed.”
Sorrinn wasn’t sure what he meant by that. Sounded cool, though.
That said, he made himself comfortable and sat cross-legged on the floor. “Kay, I’m ready.”
Izebeus’s form dismantled into a haze of tangible energy kindred to The Mystic Force. He pounced from above and phased into Sorrinn’s body in his entirety. Not a moment later, reality split apart into twisting cubes in Sorrinn’s eyes. The floor opened beneath him and swallowed him whole. His heart leapt into his throat before crashing through the soles of his feet. He spiraled into familiar circumstances, freefalling through an infinite sky with no terrain in sight, unsure whether he was going up or down. The howling wind pressure spun him every which way like an omnidirectional propeller. He couldn’t catch his bearing to even begin to grasp what was happening. All he knew was that he was falling and he felt sick.
However, his instinct to panic was superseded by a sense of calmness as he focused on [Equanimity]. The next thing he knew, he was plunged into the depths of an ocean, ferried by a strong current. The water boiled, then he was cast into an endless ocean of citrine flames snapping, crackling, and hissing in his ears. Soon, flying pebbles and boulders whizzed by in prelude to the bellowing storm of dust engulfing everything within view. Arcs of cracking electricity painted jagged patterns through the dust storm in perpetuity. Then everything funneled into the drain of an infinite darkness.
“Don’t resist,” he whispered to himself. “Don’t resist, don’t resist, don’t resist.” He closed his eyes tight and forfeited the tension clenching his body. When his eyes were closed, the visual chaos ceased. It was just that—visual. In the absence of his sight, it felt as if he was going on a leisurely float down a river, riding an oversized leaf boat. The warmth of the sun shone down amidst a light drizzle, his toes and fingers skating across the lazy water where they dangled over the boat’s edge.
That was better. He’d keep his eyes shut and his body relaxed until it was over.
“For as long as you live, we will be one and the same,” Izebeus’s disembodied voice said. “Rest, child. Your initiative thus far has been admirable in one’s absence. Leave it to one for now.”