The third month of Emer was always reserved for festivities honoring Theia, goddess of light and war. Emer's third week has its fourth, fifth, and sixth day marked by celebrations and sacred processions that crowd the streets; the accompanying sounds of aulos and drums spread throughout Vantium. Hymns honoring the First Daughter are sung by choirs of younglings, or more often those kindred with silky voices.

The balmy spring brings a sense of vigor upon the world. The air is pleasantly mild. Purple gardens of Vantium are in full bloom.

More than a couple of decently sized Crimsons get sacrificed as an offering at many of Theia's temples. It is a practice I find wasteful, however, I cannot deny the deep need of my sentient creations toward believing in the divine. Perhaps that is the curse of intelligence.

I never had an interest in watching skirmishes. Days always flew with my volumes or while sketching designs for potential new buildings. Most of the kindred rarely see me and the games are an excellent way to remedy that.

Once a year I watch the games together with my creations. I have often found the spectacles tedious to watch, but Maeve assures me my appearances improve the public mood, lifting the kindred's spirits.

Supposedly, my mere presence uplifts the soul or ''divine spark,'' as the clergy enjoys stating. Human rulers used religion for thousands of years to pacify the population, stemming uprisings, and to justify their claim to power. I have no crown, yet sometimes I feel its weight.

In the distance southwest from us, green archlight pleasantly shines—a mere radiant orb of verdant during daytime.

Thrown in the northeastern outskirts of Vantium, Ardorium is an arena that can take over a hundred thousand kindred, with those possessing the best vision being seated further away. This number is deceptive and varies greatly depending on the size of my creations. Some seats resemble endless rows of giant steps but most are smaller.

There are zones in the arena with a series of ascending rectangular-like platforms—somewhat similar to the jumping stones hugging the sides of the many granite hills or tall buildings within the city—made to accommodate Winged or bulkier four-legged kindred. Those seating areas are often only half full, and mostly with those lacking either wings or four legs.

At the middle of Ardorium's long side is a pulvinar. A place where nothing and everything sits. A place where images of Allmother, Theia, and Acrona are flaunted upon ornate chairs.

The coliseum has no awnings at all.

Today seems a moderately poor showing with what I was told is around eighty thousand. Almost all present here today are sentient.

The floor of the arena is covered with pale brown sand.

The crowd is screaming and spurring for the performance to continue.

Chained at the center of Ardorium is the main attraction.

Steropes, a giant with rock-like plating for skin, has his hands spread like the wings of an eagle. His wrists are bound in thick iron chains. Two elephants, with chains wrapped about their chests, are pulling, trying to tear Steropes' arms off.

He laughs. A rich, deep sound, somehow easily heard over that of the crowd.

Pulling against the big animals, against their combined might, and moving his large palms closer and closer, Steropes makes a single clap. Thud echoes across the spectators, scaring a distant flock of white birds in the upper parts of Ardorium.

Steropes bites his chains off, the iron pieces scattering upon the sand, and waves at the endless thousands of kindred around him. Roars and applause of spectators wash over the giant.

He bows in my direction and leaves the arena shortly after.

The elephants are taken away to rest; the sand leveled, and the arena cleared.

Soon, the hidden sun is about to reach its zenith.

The announcer strides across the arena. After looking up, he almost stumbles, fleeing back the way he came like the sky is about to fall onto him.

A pale fleeting shadow bursts across the entire arena.

There are murmurs and shouts. I immediately send orders with my mind for the greatsword Pentacore to be brought to me and for Vantium's garrison to descend upon Ardorium. I prepare to take control over all unsentient crystalborn I can see.

For some reason, there is no screeching or roaring from above. I find it hard to believe that a Winged Wr---

It's him! I gaze up laughing and immediately counter all my previous commands.

A winged tiger the size of a bigger Winged Wraith spirals downward slowly.

Whirling columns of sand are thrown at the awestruck crowds. Some of the kindred are screaming and running away from the arena. Nearby guards try to calm them, and even my thoughts are thrown here and there, proclaiming the beast to be one of us.

Sand is blasted over almost half the Ardorium's floor as Dreadhorn lands.

The arena became much smaller. The intrepid beast has forelegs that are taller than me.

Tiger's mildly curved horns are spiral-shaped, long, and with several twists. The two dark brown horns are thick at the base, and, as they taper to a sharp point, a series of annulations are found along their length, giving them a ribbed texture.

His black stare is directed toward me. The beast makes many of his kindred uneasy with his mere presence. Dreadhorn soon sits, refusing to move. I haven't seen him over thirty years.

I jump from near my high seat, forming a long arch. Soon landing deep inside the arena.

There was immense pressure from the Council for me to dominate Dreadhorn's mind: for Wraith hunts or our behemoth battles. Maeve even wanted me to force my will onto the giant tiger, making it her mount. Void's chains, even I wanted for the crystalborn to become one of my personal Winged. But I couldn't make myself to force it. The creature was unlike most other kindred, it instinctively wishes to soar and be left alone. For over a century, there were few occasions where I would receive a report describing how a Winged Wraith was found mutilated by something. Dreadhorn probably sensed them to be a threat.

The army could use him, his claws are swords that would rake the behemoth-hide; on the Hunt, deadly hunting squads would favor his presence; his jaws, as if made to rip any Wraith's throat out. Goddess, he is a squad.

I must be blind.

Kali jumps from the tiger's tall back, landing next to me. ''About a year ago you mentioned how you missed the great beast. He was west of Akti by the time I tracked it down.'' Kali's hair, a disheveled mess of strands from jostling the winds, falls across the left side of her face.

I was certain I would never see the tiger again. It must've taken her months to locate him.

Kali's consummate grasp of logistics, tactics, and strategy lowered our losses against behemoths—those vacuous wretches—by a considerable margin. Lamentably, her beautiful mind is clad with cold steel, making this gesture much more appreciated.

I smile and embrace her.

She seems confused, and only after two or three quick heartbeats of hesitation returns the embrace.

But the wild crystalborn never let anyone straddle it but me. How did she---

''There is no saddle,'' I note.

''I did fall a couple of times.'' For some reason, I find that very difficult to imagine.

''And he came back for you?'' I stare at the giant tiger's black eyes for a moment. Bathed in pure black, his pupils are unseen. In their place, two dull reflections of the sky above glisten like sparks of white light. My outstretched hand runs across the short prickling hair of Dreadhorn's snout bridge.

''Yes,'' Kali says. ''The very first encounter was a little rough but it remembered me and I showed him a drawing of you. He is clever.''

It took almost an hour to level the scattered sands of the arena—allowing the duels to resume.

My mind uplifted, I no longer found watching the skirmishes, as well as a religious ceremony, and other events that followed Dreadhorn's departure to be as tiresome as before.

The announcer raises his arms to quiet the audience down to a few whispers and grunts. ''Today we will be witnessing something unseen before!'' I thought we already have. Dardanus is tall and covered with a mane of coarse, black hair; he has gray-green eyes that seem to shine like oil lamps. Glittering sharp tusks protrude at the corners of his mouth. Dardanus has quite a voice: loud but not hoarse. ''General herself wishes to test one of you in the arena!''

Kali enters the arena, advancing toward the center. She holds two large swords.

The air throughout the space obtains a newfangled aura of confusion, excited shrieks, roars, and murmurs.

Again, Dardanus raises his arms in a quieting gesture. ''Theia be honored!''

He looks at Kali, standing next to him. ''General.'' He bows slightly and leaves, slowly this time.

Amusing, she never fights in the arena for fear she might harm one of her fellow kindred.

If she challenges Nakon I wonder how she would deal with the giant's dominance of the winds. He could easily make it a draw by flying away, although, knowing Nakon that is not happening. They might damage the arena. And if Steropes is the lucky winner we might need a new one entirely by the end of the day.

For the first time, I am glad Max is not in the city. He might have jumped into the arena to face her.

Despite the deep respect I have for my crystalborn, many of whose courage is unquestionable, I'm still surprised at everyone's eagerness to be picked by her. I'm fairly certain some kindred would rather face a Wraith than have a friendly bout with Kali. Howbeit, it is possibly a once-a-century opportunity.

She scouts out the audience, searching to find her match.

I focus my gaze on Kali, and a hint of a smirk tugs at my lips. The blaze of her eyes is clear to me even at this distance. This battlefield is too small for her.

My eyes focus on hers even more. I see them in such detail as though she were standing close enough for me to feel her breath on my skin.

Kali's eyes are the purple of Xanadian valleys and are of similar coloration to my Genesis thunderbolts.

If the skirmish goes too far, I might be forced to stop the fight.

The fight itself won't take long. Many continue to cheer for her to pick them. I have to admire that.

An oversized scythe is Kali's main and favorite weapon. But she spends the nights practicing with swords, daggers, longbow; well...anything sharp, really.

I hope she doesn't hurt---

Suddenly, everyone is unsettlingly quiet.

Kali is pointing the long weapon at me. Tens of thousands of eyes mix into one kaleidoscopic gaze directed toward my seat.

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One of Kali's claymores continues to aim in my direction. ''I challenge Maker.''

It takes me a few breaths to truly grasp those words.

Strangely, most of my attention is not on her blade or words, but the silence holding the stadium. My creations, beasts of scale and fur, human-shaped kindred in their untold thousands, all are dazed and quiet to such an extent that even my ears hear nothing save for the mild wind.

The arena's onlookers do not know how to react—many waiting to see my own.

I throw a reassuring soft smile across the arena, get up from my high carved seat, and move a little forward.

Jumping from a great height onto Ardorium's center, I make a mild scattering of sand upon landing. I straight up and wave to all the crystalborn around me, an action which seems to make them ecstatic. At the same time, my thoughts rush toward Kali as I turn to look at her. ''What are you doing?''

''I know you are bored. Dance with me.'' She shrugs, seemingly content with her showiness. I believe there is even a tiny smile hiding on those lips.

I don't like this, even if these are all just theatrics we could still accidentally hurt one of the kindred. Despite the vast space and the arena pit being so deep.

Since Kali already selected two claymores forged of hepatizon, she tosses me one.

Tens of thousands are cheering their cores out. I release a long sigh.

I clumsily catch it by the blade and move my right hand to grab the handle. The metal which possesses an alluring dark purplish patina is second in strength only to aurichalcum. It probably took some kindred craftsman considerable effort to make these blades from notoriously difficult-to-work-with ore, and I sense they will be needlessly damaged if the two of us use them.

The handle of my sword is made of oak, wrapped with polished and lacquered rawhide, and then bound in strips of silk. Handguard is shaped into a shortbow shape.

Like the rest of the weapons used in Ardorium, and as is the way in many another arena, these swords are not sharpened. A battle-ready hepatizon blade could easily cut most crystalborn or even alamarium armor.

In the end, all that is now irrelevant since even sharpened bloodsteel itself would break against Kali's skin. Waves upon headland.

Her face is sculptural, flawlessly smooth. Well-defined jawline and a delicate nose make for a pleasing look. She is beautiful.

Kissing her hips, Kali's long hair was a mess when she landed in the arena. Sleeked back now, it frames an appealing brow, noble and free from blemishes—like the rest of her.

Kali has the physique of a tall human female. This is where most similarities stop. Despite looking firm and slender, her body is significantly heavier than a human one of her stature would be. Kali's bones and muscles are much denser than almost all humanoid kindred. Considering how difficult it is to pierce her skin, the aurichalcum cuirass she is so fond of wearing is a hindrance more than a boost.

Looking pristine and unused—hallmarks of aurichalcum—the cuirass glistens in the pale sun. Patches and swirls the color of Void and blood, eternally wrestling for dominance.

Trumpets declare the start of our duel. At first, we stand and stare at each other.

For a few heartbeats, an ocean of stillness envelops the arena.

Kali carelessly shatters it, advancing toward me with the speed of a diving Winged.

For centuries, the movement of even the fastest of warriors would seem slow and predictable to my eyes, hers is anything but.

She slashes and thrusts at my body with coolness and precision. No. Not coolness. More akin to fire than anything cold. Her blade is a whirlwind of blurry purple, a tempest of hepatizon sent by Theia herself. Bold movements make her pristine white hair trail her, the ends splaying like a wild mane the color of untouched snow.

Ebb never being a known term, Kali pushes unrelentingly onward.

We move as one, our bodies a blur of blinding speed. Possessing perfect simultaneity, our swords unceasingly clash in a chaos of clangs.

After hundreds of rapid clashes, she breaks my sword.

Even after my many encouragements for the scholars to have an open debate on various topics, they would continue to lionize me and not speak freely.

While most sentient crystalborn would rarely even try to argue my decisions, she would often openly challenge me, many times irrationally and with no true purpose.

Fitting, perhaps. Her orders are never demurred, making her comparable to me in this regard.

Kali's strength has made her arrogant. With a flash of movement, I grab her claymore by the blade and make a fist.

Shards of metal scatter, and a few end up deflected against my neck and her arms.

She releases her broken claymore, allowing it to fall.

My left hand closes before connecting to her chin.

Kali's head jerks to the side as the force of the blow sends the light caramel sand of the arena jostling outwards. It should've catapulted her across the floor, instead, her purple eyes shining with hints of anger seems to be the main result of my effort.

With celerity, impossibly almost rivaling mine, before her broken sword fell upon the sand, she uses the sliver of time while I was exposed, to counterattack to its full effect.

I am transformed into a blue arrow after Kali kicks me in the stomach. My body tears the air, until finally shattering the arena wall in clouds of dust and stone.

As I stand up, my dark blue hair is painted gray, together with most of me. Indigo satin vest and black breeches tattered, torn to rags almost.

I have had enough.

With no holding back, my full fury of movement is unleashed.

In a single jump, spanning almost half the arena, I'm upon her. Attacking with no respite. My cascade of punches and kicks force her on the defensive.

Constantly I try to flank her until, finally, I manage to grab Kali's ankle and smash her across the arena floor, like wielding a club.

Impacts from her body create miniature craters.

Again and again, I triturate her body, making large chrysanthemum-shaped plumes of sand.

Again and again, Kali's perfectly white hair trails her blurry pale-purple face.

''Yield!'' There is no response, she probably closed her mind to my intrusion.

A few leather straps of her dark red cuirass are finally torn. The armor becomes half removed as I continue to slam her to the ground.

While I move her body like a whip in preparation for another sand-eating, she swiftly tears the last of the straps and throws, not even slightly dented, bloodsteel cuirass away. Kali's body coils as she grabs my right wrist with both hands. Her movement: a haze even to my eyes.

She squeezes.

Something is wrong.

I frantically punch her hard—many times—into her face and abdomen, just to make her let go. Honey-thick dark purple, almost black blood is slowly flowing out of her mouth and nose—gradually turning to shiny dust.

I throw a haymaker into her right cheek.

My following blows strike her body with tremendous force, each one could easily kill a Caledonian lion, an animal whose shoulder-height rivals my own.

She refuses to let go.

''Let go! Let go! Let go!'' Like the punches, my racing thoughts are ignored.

She grips harder yet.

There is a loud crack.

I scream. More out of shock and anger than pain.

Kali immediately lets me go and collapses to the ground, exhausted.

Instinctively, I make a single jump, many dozens of armspans away from her, all the way near the other side of the arena.

No one makes a sound. The entire Ardorium holds its breath.

Some distance above and to my left, I can easily discern the gentle buzzing sound made by the delicate wings of a dark blue insect, seemingly lost above the arena. Resembling a jumble of thin fragile sticks, it can't fly for very long. The insect is roughly headed southwest, toward the green Archcrystal.

I stare at the black bands of distant clouds, cutting across the mostly gray. So peaceful.

Although my howling was short, none of my crystalborn ever heard or saw me like this. My right arm, despite looking strong and untouched, limps to the side.

Kali is lying on the floor with her head tilted towards me. Her hair and face are dirty, and there is a decent amount of shiny dust as well as sand plastered all over her face and body. Most of her garments are half destroyed. ''Are you well?'' she asks, her thoughts invading my mind.

There is no creature, no being or metal that could pierce my skin or truly hurt me. And yet I believe she just created a small hairline fracture inside my right arm.

Snow from the Crown of the World's highest peaks is unceasingly being injected deep into my wrist. The unpleasant feeling pulsates up the arm.

Never; not even humans managed to physically hurt me like this.

I regard the quiet tens of thousands of kindred. ''General yet again earns her title. I yield!'' my voice carries well in the arena.

The smile that graces my lips is only partially forced. Strangely, I feel pride.

Slowly, I move toward her to help her up, and yet again she insists on continuing to surprise me.

Kali gets up.

My crystalborn seem to be in a state of confusion. There will be no strife, I must eviscerate any hint of it.

Suddenly, with my left hand, I grab her wrist and lift it. ''Kali Invicta!''

At first void-silence reigns; but then roars, shouts, screeches, howls, hisses, chirruping, humming, and every resonance between, quell the previously lonely sounds of our gasping. A deluge of ear-pulverizing pandemonium washes over Kali and me in reminiscence of an event, decades prior.

***

My arm healed quickly, during the last few days.

This garden's center has a large natural tree with a thick trunk and purple leaves. A distant circular stone walkway, slightly raised and with no railing, encircles the oak, marking the border of the garden within it.

Growing below my shoulder height, small trees had their violet crowns decorated with yellow gems. Row upon row of short nectarine trees spreads to my left, surrounded by patches of purple grass and mostly black and red flowers. The abundantly sweet nectarine has a stunning yellow color.

Thrown all around me are tall narrow hills of pure granite rock, with dens, caves, and homes carved into them. Between many of the small cliffs, waterfalls peacefully cascade, creating a large wide staircase, with pools on each landing.

The garden is a patch of order among this beautiful chaos of scattered purple, black, and red shrubs randomly jutting from the vertical landscape.

Regrettably or not, unlike most creatures of the world, my creations don't need water for sustenance, but, of course, it has other uses—and I poetically equate the sound of rushing water with the heartbeat of nature.

Silently, I hop from the walkway into the garden.

In the shadows I see him. Four horns, feral eyes. A demon-looking creature. Head taller than me, he walks on two legs. Large bat-like wings burst out his back. Yellow-eyes keeps his long thigh-thick tail carefully coiled behind. The tail narrows towards the end. The full extended length of it almost matches that of his tall stature.

He's mowing down hundreds of souls with each scythe stroke; and is also quite fond of writing songs in addition to gardening, which occupies him now.

Large sways of purple grass are being sliced, making the intensely sweet and sharp smell of fresh-cropped grass imbue the garden with its delightful aroma.

Aillen at first, with his back to me, doesn't perceive my approach. ''Maker.'' He stops slicing immediately upon noticing me and bows slightly.

I regard the luscious, well-kept garden. ''It grows well.''

Aillen looks down at me with pale yellow eyes. He puts his scythe blade down, resting his right hand on the handle; black claws mirror the grass-cutting tool's curvature. ''Sometimes too well.'' His voice is thunderous but pleasant. A distant rumble of a forgotten summer squall.

If I don't focus hard enough, my hearing can detect insects walking—an ability that can be annoyingly distracting to manage while reading. Conversing with him requires me to significantly deaden my little curse-blessing, dampening many sounds like the rushing water, chirping of tiny pale red blushes, nearby crakler's click-clacking, the wind rustling the purple leaves.

''If left to just a few days of neglect, chaos claims all,'' Aillen notes.

Considering his large form, I was always surprised at how he managed to tend the delicate plants with such...purple touch. Kali pressured him not a small number of times to join the army or the hunting squads. Aillen's resistance to those overtures is even more impressive than his gardening skills.

Sometimes he would ask me to describe what individual flowers smelled like. Senses of smell and taste, the things I take for granted, were always a source of fascination for my creations. I would try to be poetic and say, ''The scent of flowers is like a subtle most pleasant tickling of the nose.''

''How are you?'' I ask. My eyes narrow slightly at the sudden, fleeting discomfort. Despite being fully recovered, a certain sharp and crisp ache passes through my right arm for a heartbeat or two. It makes me think of her. Kali mended in less than two days, however, even if her hand suddenly fell off I doubt the stubborn general would complain to me about it.

Aillen did not seem to have noticed my discomfort. ''I fare well, if only Jeju was banished from the garden for all eternity I would be sublime.''

That brings a short-lived chuckle out of me, and a slight ache in my cheeks at the almost-forgotten motion. Jeju is a sweet six-legged dog with no tail and a screeching bark who sadly doesn't share the same respect for plants that Aillen has. The cute ball of spite always manages to escape his yard enclosure, cutting the path of any passersby and demanding attention. As much as my yellow-eyed friend would hate to admit it, he loves Jeju, we all do.

I gaze at him, all stoic and serious now. ''I may have a task for you.''

''Anything, Maker.''

***

Born out of uncut Emerald that was extracted from a mighty Wraith, the sapling will grow higher than even the highest sky-tree. For this reason, a suitable location is needed.

A dark blue specter trailing behind, my hair whips in the high winds.

Me riding Toranos, my griffin, my wings; and together with Aillen, him using his large wings of a bat, we soar across the sky.

Aillen assured me the location is ideal.

Planting of this sapling demands careful consideration.

Crystalborn trees, as well as other plant life born of Genesis, cannot be used as a resource for making chairs, tables, or woodworking, nor can they be used as firewood. They simply turn to crystal dust when cut.

My creations would find it vile, but many crystalborn trees produce fruit that can be plucked and is often quite edible, although bland in taste.

Even human-made artificial trees had strong roots, connecting them deeply to the soil, allowing these plants to use resources from the ground. Ultimately giving birth to seedless fruit. Of course, akin to my animate creations, artificial trees need sunlight for sustenance.

Light is the food and water of all kindred. They would often gaze at the pale sun or Archcrystal with fascination and desire in their eyes. Winged would spread their wings when sunbathing to absorb more light this way.

Insects tend to avoid and are unable to penetrate the strong bark of my trees; they may walk over it and consume the fruit but the special bark remains undamaged. Not even fire can consume a crystalborn tree.

Plain stretching below us is a level expanse of soil with no end. Tall purple grass and wildflowers dominate these lands.

We descend slowly.

There is a stream near the planting spot, running through a meadow.

Gently, the griffin lands.

In no time at all I throw myself at the task before me.

From behind the saddle, I remove the few ropes and take the wrapped sapling.

Using my bare hands I make a hole in the ground near the landing spot.

''Maker,'' Aillen begins, ''may I speak openly?''

I turn to regard him. ''Yes.''

''There are many who say the General will be removed from the Council or how she should be banished from the city. Some are torn between the love of you and respect all have for the General. Why did you fight Kindred Kali?''

I smile for a moment. ''As you probably know, it is difficult to say no to the General. Even for me. The fight started a playful thing, only at the end did things became...slightly more serious. She wanted to fight me so I fought her. That is that. No one is getting removed or banished, Aillen.''

He nods. Soon, my four-horned friend changes the topic and speaks of plants and how the landscape will be reformed by my crystalborn. Aillen talks of poetry and politely asks for full access to my library.

After patting the soil around the stem I stand up. ''No, old friend. Knowledge locked there is a heavy and dangerous thing. Ask for a thousand gardens, a palace, ask for even some human-written books that may interest you but don't ask me that.'' I throw my stare at the horizon. ''You may think I do not trust you. It is not about trust. Once an exception is made, floodgate slowly opens.''

I look at the dying pale sun and then back at the young tree.

The sapling will grow to become a god among its peers.