“Ah…”

Orla closed her book. She could feel the climax edging closer, but she would soon be interrupted. Better to stop now than to have the moment ruined.

The novel drifted out of her hand and joined the walls of bookshelves that covered her study. A glass of her homebrew whiskey replaced it as she glanced out of the window next to her lounge seat. The moon was full tonight, but the clouds weren’t playing along.

Her gaze returned to her glass as a small ray of moonlight peaked in through the pane and lightly reflected off its silver edges. She stared for a moment. Not at the reflections, they were barely of note, but at the war her wrinkled hand held.

Fluorescent spots of purple and white fought for supremacy in the middle, barraging each other in a constant maelstrom. Miniature explosions rang everytime they made contact. Neither could make any ground on the other, but neither paused their assault. On the outskirts, trails of green and red swirled around the resulting whirlpools. They engaged in their own battle. Though theirs was much less dramatic, never resulting in a vortex, their jostling was just as important as the main contest. The glass was a warzone and each battle had their place. Each battle had to be just right.

Orla downed it in one.

"Ugh."

She could only look at the now empty glass disappointingly. The flavor was off. Not terribly so, but she'd left it active too long. The perfectly crafted equilibrium slipped at some point. She knew she'd been reading for awhile, but time, something she used to have such a firm grasp on, seemed to blow past her more and more as of late. Aging was a terrible thing.

She was so lively only five hundred years ago. Her body still lean and toned, her hair still bright orange, her skin still fair. Now look at her, old, white and withered, waiting restlessly for her time to come. She felt disgusted, but she didn't let that emotion surface on her face. Her intruders had arrived.

The door flung open and a gray-haired girl with enough muscle to put her guards to shame burst through, “Momma! Sol used his spells on me again!”

The boy in question, an auburn-haired teen who stood more than half a foot shorter, raced into her study not a moment later, “She started it! She punched me!”

He flashed the dark mark on his tanned skin.

Already healing.

While Orla remarked on Sol’s uncanny healing ability, Marina threw her over six and a half foot self into her lap, “He was making fun of me! He called me stupid."

"No I didn't! I told her if she kept eating meat for every meal, she'd have a meat brain."

"You're just jealous I'm bigger than you!"

Orla played with Marina's hair as they continued to go back and forth. Sol seemed to be the main instigator of this particular incident, but Marina wasn't blameless. She'd been gloating about their size difference for a few years now. Sol was extraordinarily gifted, a genius by every measure, even physically, but his stature just couldn’t compare to Marina’s. She was an outlier among anomalies. Unsurprisingly considering who her parents were.

In the midst of the two's flared argument, three maids rushed into the room. Before any of them said a word, the two rascals immediately halted their shouting contest and hid behind her.

"Our greatest apologies Madam. We were just having a late dinner beca—"

Orla raised a hand, "It's fine. I'll handle them for tonight."

"But...Madam."

"Enough, enough. Go get some rest. Let me play with my children."

"As you wish Madam." They all bowed and quickly left.

The children ran out and high fived each other, their previous argument already forgotten. They’d likely resume it in no more than three days, but for now they were allies. Allies against her, or more precisely..

~Failinis~

She gathered a bit of ahjer and pulled her soulbound companion from his slumber. Failinis, in his puppy form, stalked menacingly out of thin air. His muscular frame inched into existence bit by bit. Even as just a pup, he was a beast to be reckoned with. Shadows clung to his fur, masking his exact appearance, but his presence oozed magnificence all the same.

Both of the children still had their gear from their earlier training, so they hastily moved into their battle stances. Failinis’ power now was barely a fraction of his true self, but in this form he roughly matched Marina’s strength while only slightly outmatching Sol’s spellcasting. With his wealth of experience fighting unfair odds, he was the perfect sparring partner for them. Once the two were set and focused, he pounced.

Outside of forming a barrier to protect her various books and trinkets, Orla only vaguely peered at the ensuing battle. Thoughts about how to get Failinis to make her some wine took precedence. She looked down at her empty glass and reminisced. It’d been decades since he’d made any type of drink for her...

Hm?

Just as her mind drifted to times of old, she felt...off. No, that wasn't right. It was the opposite, she felt on, invigorated, energized even. Sensations that had been lost to her for centuries, returned. Her ancient, decaying bones suddenly felt full of life.

Is this?

“Momma...”

Orla refocused on the spar and almost flinched at the sight of a half-grown Failinis looking back at her. The once five-foot pup was now scraping his ears against her five meter ceiling.

It is!

"Ha." She couldn't help but chuckle. This was it, this was the moment she'd been waiting almost a millennium for. The light at the end of the tunnel finally emerged. She half-expected the occasion to elicit some excitement out of her, but reality only provided relief. Subdued relief at that.

"Finally."

With Failinis no longer a reasonable opponent, the children scurried around him to stand by Orla's side. Their slightly worried faces brought another chuckle to her lips. They didn’t know it, but tonight was a big night for them. Tonight marked the moment everything would change.

She looked out the window, “Such a show deserves some wine.” Then back at Failinis, “Don’t ya t'ink?”

----------------------------------------

The sky dazzled. So many stars pierced through the sweeping darkness of night, one could almost forget it was night at all. They danced brightly amongst the three moons, each radiating one of the prime colors. The stars were free to frolic, but the vibrant moons were fixed perfectly, if unnaturally, in a line. They acted like bards, humming on stage for the birds and fae to make merry.

So while the stars bewitched, they orchestrated. There was no actual sound, but it was hard to tell while enthralled by the show. The moons’ music paraded around the land as if there was. It was no mundane melody, it was an orchestra that fed the mind’s wildest fantasies, a tune so vivid and potent it could not possibly be immaterial.

The stars played no small part in the spectacle. They flashed and swirled and sparkled. All manner of colors and hues, in a seemingly infinite array of sizes, made the night sky their home. Any small patch would be entrancing on its own, but as a collective it was so much more than. It was a ballet beyond beautiful. Some stars moved in coordination, others were more free-flowing, but they all moved to the tune of the moons.

Together they lit up the sky with the most enchanting of performances. Unfortunately, those with the power to see it could rarely appreciate its magnificence. For in all of its marvel, it foretold nothing but the worst of calamities.

Dalric stared. Thoughtless.

What could he think?

His last memory was dying in the fields of Aonica. A true death, a death of soul, not just body. That should have been it for him. He should have disappeared from this world permanently. Yet somehow here he was, gazing upon the remnants of one of the greatest catastrophes in history.

Is this what the dead witness before the afterlife?

He hoped. He desperately hoped this was just a bridge between his past life and the next. He had never believed in an afterlife before, but now he begged for it. The alternative was…

His eyes continued to stare upward as the finale arrived. The Dance of the Forgotten was bright to begin with, but its final moments were exceedingly so. The sun was a candle in comparison. Though its nature didn’t allow it to blind a person, it did cause excruciating headaches. Dalric felt his brain weep.

Pain wasn’t something the dead should feel.

The Dance soon subsided, returning the sky to darkness and its more natural green hue. The central moon could still be spotted, small and masked though it was. Normalcy had resumed.

Normalcy.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

The familiarity of the dark sky shocked him more than the cosmic light show that preceded it. It was full-blown proof that he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t passing on. He wasn’t leaving his chains behind. He was still alive, he was still on Fyrsta and he was still Dalric the Deathseeker…

Still.

He couldn’t believe it, he didn’t want to believe it, but as he continued to stare at the clouds shifting over the moon the reality of his situation continued to stare him in the eye. He tried his best to ignore it. He laid still for who knows how long while his frayed mind sought any plausible explanation. Anything he could latch on to. Anything that would save him from that reality.

Anything.

It didn’t. It found nothing other than the cruel truth. He had played all his cards, tried every trick, exploited every loophole, and it was all for naught. There was no escape. Even death could not free him.

A deeply defeated sigh escaped.

How foolish.

It would seem he was truly doomed to forever live as the Gods’ dog. He chastized himself for allowing a brief glint of hope to peer into him, he should have known better. The Gods were petty, weak, and nothing like the temples preached, but their contracts were absolute. More absolute than he could have ever known. He lightly shook his head, ignoring the dirt that pushed against the back of it.

How many more will I ki—hm? The levels haven’t dropped.

Dalric had only witnessed the Dance of the Forgotten once before and while the much younger him would’ve been forgiven for being too captivated to note his surroundings, he was just as attentive then as he is now. While the semi-illusionary show raged on far into the sky, the very real ahjer on the ground followed closely behind.

The lifeblood of reality overflowed, saturating everything. The dirt, the grass, the very air brimmed with ahjer. Anywhere and everywhere under the three moons, the concentration of ambient ahjer increased more than tenfold. In some places the levels were so high, you could physically see it. A supposed impossibility. Any trained ahjerist could sense it, but even Dalric, a master twenty times over, couldn’t see ambient ahjer. Yet the Dance could cause such anomalies.

But, like the Dance, the odd explosion of ahjer only lasted a few moments. It should have dissipated right as the sky returned to its normal state, but it hadn’t. As Dalric stretched out his senses, he just felt more of the same, an unnaturally thick concentration of ahjer. Another question to add to the growing list.

It should be the most immediately concerning question, as anything linked with the Dance needed to be given priority, but in stretching out his senses Dalric had discovered something of even greater personal concern.

I’m… human?

Engrossed in his thoughts, he failed to notice the very, very different body that housed them.

He stood. He knew he laid in a graveyard, he sensed the makings of one, but actually seeing the chipped, cracked, and withered tombstones scattered amongst overgrown vegetation told a more detailed story.

There weren’t many of them, but each was quite large and intricate, featuring what he assumed were once extravagant designs and patterns. Some parts even emitted ahjer. Their overall quality painted a picture of importance, at least at the time of their passing. It had clearly been decades, if not centuries, since anyone came to pay their respects and the jungle firmly claimed them in that time.

He faintly wondered why he couldn't spot any other signs of civilization, but those thoughts quickly passed. The scenery was of secondary importance right now. He was human.

So small…

He couldn't remember the last time he stood so close to the ground. The body… his body couldn't be more than nine feet tall, bordering on a third of what he used to stand at. His arms were short and thin, to say nothing of his legs. They felt like skin and bones compared to what he was used to. His shoulders weren't broad enough, his back wasn't thick enough. Nothing about this b—his body felt like him. It felt...wrong.

The domineering presence, gone. The monstrous muscles, gone. The impenetrable skin, gone. Dalric the Immortal Giant, gone.

Though the ‘immortal’ piece was truer than ever, he supposed.

Is this even more punishment? Is this how they toy with me for thinking I could escape them?

His migraine had subsided, but it threatened to reemerge. So too did the despair that had frozen him still.

He gripped his forehead and squeezed.

I. Am. Dalric… I am not what they make me.

Some time passed as he repeated his mantra. Once he’d resettled himself, he released his grip and sighed. As much as he disliked the body he currently occupied, he refused to let that be what got him. He lived through too much torment for that. From a different perspective, this was a boon.

Though Dalric had lived as a giant for a few thousand years and strongly preferred his larger frame, said frame came with its own set of problems. Humans weren’t the worst race they could have made him. He wasn’t a dwarf.

He could make do. He would make do, he most certainly wouldn’t wallow in despair over it. Those days were long behind him.

Not that it matters…

His thoughts drifted to Laekna, he desperately wished she could escape this wretched life but… No. He wouldn’t give up on trying. They’d think of something. He may be stuck, but she didn’t have to be. He reached out his hand and called for her.

...

There was no response.

Hm?

Fear crept into his heart for a moment when he failed to even locate her, but it faded moments after as he could clearly feel their bond was still intact. He just couldn't connect to her.

He briefly tried to call the others, though he wasn’t sure he was prepared for that reunion. He had sent them on wild goose chases as he marched to his own demise. A small, but loud, part of him was thankful when none of them responded.

He tried calling for Laekna again, putting a bit more umph into it.

Same result.

This time though, he noticed another problem. He was weak, pitifully weak, and not even because he was human. His ahjer levels were beyond pathetic. Humans may have lacked any kind of respectable physical strength, but if there was one thing they didn't lack, it was a body perfectly suited for ahjer. Something was wrong.

Dalric looked inward, fully analyzing his body. Beyond the woeful amount of ahjer in it, there weren’t any problems. In fact, it looked surprisingly good. More than good, the purity of the ahjer within him was a notch or two higher than before. That was a massive boon. In almost every case purity mattered far, far more than quantity, but currently Dalric had the quantity of a newborn child. It was—

Wait...you fool. Of course I do, I’ve just been reborn.

That answered that question, he assumed, but he now found himself in an odd situation. His body was clearly that of a full-grown adult, so would his ahjer increase like an adult’s or like a child’s? He hoped it was the former. That would make him all but useless to the Gods for the next two centuries at minimum.

That would be a blessing… but then I'd also be too weak to break whatever is blocking the bond… Hmm.

Pondering the pros and cons would get him nowhere, it was out of his control. He’d receive the answer in a few days regardless of how he felt. In the meantime, he had to figure out what was going on and where he even was. Aonica was known for its unnaturally flat land. Wherever he was, it had hills. The graveyard he stood in clearly sat on top of one.

So they've moved me somewhere far from Aonica, why? What are they trying to accomplish?

His mind moved back to the Dance. He’d only witnessed it once before, the day the world discovered Undir. Or more precisely, the day the races of Undir attempted to colonize the surface.

He played little to no role in that particular world event, the battlefield was both too far and too deadly for him at the time. He heard the stories though. More dragons and Titans died in that war than he’d seen in his entire life. If not for the fact there was only one opening between the surface and Undir, the conclusion of those stories could have been very different.

Now, having witnessed it again, he knew he couldn’t avoid what was to come. He literally opened his eyes to it, how could he not be involved? What he needed to know was what exactly that involvement entailed and what part did the Gods play in all of it.

He briefly wondered if his resurrection was the cause, but he almost immediately threw that idea out. ‘Dalric the Deathseeker’ could be called a ‘big deal’, but not so much so that his existence would trigger the Dance on its own. He looked towards his dainty arm. Especially not now.

He could only imagine the God's were up to something big and his rebirth was a key piece in it. That wasn’t a pleasant image.

Odd that they've not spoken to me.

Their ghastly presence still covered him, he could never mistake it, but it felt… dormant. Like a light blanket rather than a titanoboas grip. He didn't know what to make of that.

There had been a number of times where they left him to his devices, decades at a time even, but he had always felt their yoke. Why had it loosened? He could assume his death had lessened it in some way, but that was simply a blind guess. For all he knew, it only felt looser because he was human.

He added the question to the list, but it wasn’t his immediate priority.

What to do now…

His deduction that the Dance, his rebirth, and the Gods were all linked seemed sound. It also seemed like a difficult thing to unravel. He had no clue where to even begin to attempt.

He considered doing nothing, at least until he was forced to do something, but he didn’t like that path. He’d never been one to surrender initiative. None of the Gods were communicating with him. Which left him in the dark, but also meant he was unsupervised. They were in the dark as well.

This was a golden, glistening opportunity. If there was even the slightest opening to ruin their plans, he had to grasp it with both hands and feet. Especially considering whatever they had in mind was at a scale large enough to summon The Dance.

But. That took him back to his first question, what to do now? He needed information, but he had no way of getting it. He had neither contacts nor companions. Even if he assumed that given time the latter would change, what would he do in the interim? Skulk around the wilds hoping for clues? That would get him nowhere. His only route to actual information ran through some form of civilization, but without a liaison, that path was barred.

Or...

Or maybe not.

He gazed at his hands.

With this level of strength, the average city is a greater risk to me than I would be to them. They should be safe. And… I have a new form now. Maybe I could...

He felt hesitant. It had been centuries since he last visited a city with intentions other than destruction and even if the source of those intentions were thankfully mute, he’d known their cruelty for too long. How long will silence last? Is that silence also a form of cruelty, the quiet before the storm?

Was all this just another pipe dream?

He continued to analyze his newfound body. There was still strength here, undoubtedly. His ahjer purity was just too high to pretend otherwise, but even with his purity he was so heavily diminished he could not truly call himself a threat to any properly defended city. Of the thousands that were sent to kill him in Aonica, a single Tempest Guard would slay him as he was now.

Would a settlement close to a jungle this dense be properly defended though? Would they have the strength to fend him off?

This is likely the frontier.

…

Maybe skulking around the wilds is for the best right now. At least until I know where I am.

With a deep breath, he made his decision. Civilized society would have to wait a bit before meeting Dalric the Human Deathseeker. For now, the jungle would make his acquaintance.

He turned toward his first visitor.

Visitors, actually.