AN: This chapter, like multiple previous ones, contains references to my original urban fantasy series, Strigoi Soul. As can be guessed from the chapter sections detailing the structure of creation, the stories take place in the same cosmology.

It also contains the introduction of Mendax, a character who was referenced before, and who readers of SS will almost certainly recognise, despite the different name.

* * *

The last thing I remembered before being knocked out was staring up at Ib's flat visage, featureless yet concerned: I'd learned to read its body language, to discern its mood from the tilting of its head. Even without my arcane sense, I'd have been more than able to notice its worry.

Two of its arms had wrapped around me. Cool but not cold, harder and more flexible than any material I knew of, the appendages had stopped my fall. And yet...

And yet.

I was flat on my back, which ached almost half as much as my head did, even though I - as far as I could tell - was neither concussed nor bleeding.

Get up. Need to get up, I thought, my not-so-old survival instincts resurfacing.

Lying supine was akin to surrendering: there was no position more vulnerable except for, arguably, lying prone, which I'd never do while I was alive.

Placing my hands against the deck, which felt oddly uneven - must've been damaged by whatever had knocked me out. The steamer hadn't acted up in a while, at least not in a way that involved shapeshifting -, I managed to get to one knee.

Blinking sweat out of my eyes, I glared around dimly. I couldn't make out anything, so either something was wrong with me - as I'd been told since birth - or with my surroundings.

For one, I could see nothing on the horizon, even in the parts not covered by fog. This was not the hateful mist that had harried me, but a mundane, grey-white haze. The horizon was a shapeless, blank expanse, which registered as darkness to my eyes.

Part of me wondered why it wasn't white, then (maybe because the fog wouldn't have been visible then?). I would've wondered why I was making such leaps at all, but they were hardly the strangest thing in this place.

A glance downwards revealed I was on a raft, little more than a bunch of logs bound with crude ropes. I could see no sail or oars, nothing I could use to travel the water that stretched around me until it met the darkness. A dark blue that revealed nothing, it resembled ink more than anything, and was as still as a mirror - not that wind would've helped much, with the ramshackle raft I was on.

I decided I would have an easier time running on water, if that was what it was. Why had my first thought been about how to sail? Habit? But I had hardly ever taken the more difficult option.

Grunting, I tried to rise to my feet, and failed as miserably as the attempt left me feeling.

Breathing harshly, I supported myself on trembling knees and elbows, looking at the raft in incomprehension. I had never been this weak, even as a child. My parents would've dashed my head against a rock. And I was a sailor, in my prime, not some old goat who couldn't take a step without wheezing for breath.

My magic wasn't being weakened or suppressed, not that I needed it to stand. Sure enough, I could feel mana flowing through my sinews.

Supine again, I slowly looked upwards, or tried to. There was nothing above me. To avoid sounding arrongant, let me explain: above a certain point on the horizon, my gaze was stopped cold, leaving me dazed, as if I'd lost a headbutting contest Ib. It also made everything blurry, which didn't help, given I felt like I'd been looking at a painting made by a blind child (and one with more enthusiasm than talent) to begin with.

Feeling hair plastered to my forehead, I tried to move it aside. My fingers came away green.

I balked at the sight, holding my hand above me. I'd dyed my hair in the past, often enough, but only to replace my natural colour with a bland one, brown or...it...it had helped throw people off...

What in the Pit was wrong with me?!

And why was I sweating so much?

I ran a hand over my face, my throat. Both were burning, which made no sense. It was neither hot nor cold wherever I was, merely stuffy, for lack of a better term. Like a slight pressure upon my skin and senses. Nothing like the awful force that had forced my eyes downwards, thought it wouldn't have surprised me if they were linked, or even one and the same.

I'd have chalked it up to exhaustion, or shock, but the fact I could still use my magic made both impossible: I should've been able to remember being rested, not trembling and soaked in sweat. In fact, I did remember, but the feeling of being drained never left.

Alright. Something was messing with my magic. More importantly, with my mind. Forcing me to act in certain ways. Preventing me from using my Gift would've been infuriating enough, but letting me use it while somehow making it useless was worse.

Fine. So, no way to cast, or strengthen myself. Can't look up unless I want a headache. Can't get anywhere on this sorry excuse of a boat, because there's no way to direct it. Even if there was, I was felt too weak and tired to row, much less run on water, which would've been much faster.

And, had I been able to use my magic, I wouldn't have been able to see anything, much less sail anywhere, not that I had a destination - except, of course, the Rainbow Burst, but I had no idea how to return. Something told me this was not the kind of gloom human eyes could pierce, aided by mana or not.

I stopped pacing on the raft, only partly because I didn't trust the rickety pile of driftwood. My hunches had somehow become bleaker and less useful than usual. Lovely.

After concluding that trying to glare at myself was unlikely to yield results, I sat down, tapping my fingers on the log that looked the sturdiest.

So. Our uninvited guests had knocked me out, and probably kicked me while I'd been down, given the headache I'd woken up with, despite Ib catching me. Then, they had separated me from my crew and put me on this raft in the middle of nowhere.

I'd have said this didn't feel like a natural space, but how much did I know about Midworld? How much did anyone? The Clockwork King and his Weaver Queen and wife acted like they knew all, from what I'd heard. There were stories of a being who was many, called Mendax, who sometimes appeared to test and mould people to its unknowable purposes.

And Ib...my friend's mind had grown immensely. I had to believe it would do its best to find me, not because it was powerful, but because we were brothers in all but the blood it lacked. And if it failed, if I never saw it and Mharra again...

Well. I hadn't lived well, certainly. I wanted to live more. Find Aina, clear the air. Make it up to her, if possible. Maybe even...

Ah, I thought, laying back on the raft with an arm slung over my eyes. Love. Of course it'd take this insanity to make me reconsider...

I couldn't just stay curled down on the raft, though. I'd die, or whatever happened to people in this strange place. Sometimes, the will to live was what made the difference between near death and the real thing.

At least that had saved me from frostbite in my youth, when my magic had been cruder. This was nothing like the dry cold I'd faced on that trackless snowy island, though, rather the opposite. It felt almost like a jungle, hot and humid. With my magic scrambled, I needed to find a way to cool down, stop sweating, if only to concentrate better, maybe find a way out of here.

I grinned humourlessly to myself. That island had been borne above the wave by an eternal blizzard. Maybe I could've survived there, if I'd chosen, feeding on beasts, but I'd wanted more.

I needed something more than caves to sleep in and meat to roast in order to live properly, damn my spoiled tastes. Even if I had remained there, there would've been a real chance of me going madder than I was, and who knew what a mage with a shattered mind could've pulled from his nightmares?

I could've avoided my imaginary pursuers if I'd stayed on the frozen island, yes; if I remained sane. And I don't think I would've found a way to keep myself together. Now, looking back, I would've either died a hermit, or given Midworld a new monster to prowl its waves.

Wiping my forehead was doing nothing. My arms were trembling, tired, my coat sleeves stained, the sweat drenching them mixing with the perspiration on my skin. I was going to rub my brow raw at this rate, unless my arms fell off first.

Sitting up with a huff, I looked around again, supporting myself with one hand on the raft. Something was approaching. There were lights on the horizon, and they did not glow with the shine of burning wood or oil, or caged lightning.

Mana. I could see it, the power born from the equilibrium between body, thought and spirit, like human silhouettes made of warm light. My vision shifted, or focused, and now they looked more like living cave paintings, a bright core surrounded by dark outlines.

I mentally shrugged, unwilling to risk literally doing it and maybe falling down again. One's arcane sense was shaped as much by fact as it was by perspective. With the state I was in, it was hardly surprising for my perception to shift.

I tried to slow down my breathing, tensing and relaxing my numb legs in preparation of trying to stand up, in case I needed to fight, or run.

Or, being more realistic, attempt to.

As the shapes came closer, I could see their boats. Not that large, with broad bands of copper over wood at regular intervals, each bore a handful of sullen-looking people.

Mine.

A short time ago - so, so very short - I'd have descended into rage at the sight, or fear. Rage, because they had let my parents get away with everything, because they had pursued me for enacting justice, and fear, not because I wasn't sure whether I could defeat or escape them, but because I didn't know whether I had it in me to face my past.

Ha. Of course I didn't. Hadn't. Otherwise, why would I have run? I would've faced them, if presented with no other alternative, defended my attack on my parents' minds until the very end.

I would have done all this, and more, if the lie I had lost countless nights of sleep over had been true.

But I knew better now. My people had never set off to pursue anything, except the endless depths of the sea, in the case of their remains. If Aina had left any...

So, who were these wraiths? My old nightmares, made real by whatever this place was? Constructs of some sort, inspired by my memories and sent after me? I wouldn't have put it past the Free Fleet to do so. If anyone could read a mage's mind without them knowing, and craft such things, all with mundane science, it was them, or the Clockwork King.

And, unless I was forgetting something, I had never given the King a reason to torment me. Except being fiendishly handsome, of course, but I could hardly lift that curse.

The beautiful will always be hated, and envied. I could only hope I hadn't drawn the King's jealousy.

Since rambling in my head took far less than doing it out loud, I decided I'd likely manage to rise to my feet by the time the boats drew close enough for my people to embrace me as the dearest son of Copper's Cradle.

For once, my optimism wasn't misplaced: when the boats were a few dozen yards away, I stood up, without even swaying. Oh, my limbs still felt numb, and I was still soaking wet, like I'd swam a handful of leagues, but I could stand.

You never really appreciated the little things until you lost them. Or got them. Maybe I would be able to sleep easy from now on. Maybe, one day, I would even stop looking over my shoulder...

Hmm. Let's not get crazy, just now.

Instead of contemplating the future, I faced the fleet. Ships, sails fluttering in a wind I couldn't feel, joined the boats. This was not a gradual process: one moment, I glimpsed vague shapes in the distance, the next, the ships towered over me, masts rising into the darkness like weathered trees.

It was as if the horizon had moved closer, dragging them along with it, then assumed its previous position faster than I could notice.

Or...perhaps the distance was an optical illusion? Was it hot enough for me to see mirages, hallucinate? I didn't think so, but then, that was the point, wasn't it?

Not that I put much trust in my sight here. I didn't have any eye problems, but I could somehow see clearly, despite there being no sun in the sky, no stars.

The Copper's Cradlers stopped a few metres away from me, floating in neat rows, boats not even bumping into each other when they stopped. The ships were farther back, and I could see cradlers leaning on the railings, hanging off the rigging, or just standing on the decks, to get a good lock at me. I almost checked if there was someone in a crow's nest using a telescope to see me, but I didn't want to look at the sky and knock myself down again.

Danger aside, it would've been embarrasingly stupid, now that I knew how some things worked here, and I didn't want to die looking like a fool, if I could help it.

The Cradlers could've been any fleet in Midworld: their clothes, brown and bronze and, of course, copper, had seen better days. Shirt sleeves were frayed, and trousers were held up by ragged leather belts or rough ropes. The belts' state suggested food was a luxury rather than a given. That, or enough impromptu amputations were performed that people had no choice but to grab the closest thing to bite.

That seemed unlikely, though. I couldn't spot one missing limb; all of them were fine. That could've been chalked up to the fleet's mages, but, looking closer at these people, something was wrong.

Why were they so pale? Human sailors were tanned by sun and wind. Had the Cradlers only sailed through Midworld's dark, windless regions?

Even that didn't make much sense, on second thought. Seamanship wasn't a gentle trade, but I could see no calluses. Every Cradler with a sleeveless shirt had arms as smooth as their hands. Unless they'd somehow convinced their mages to do everything instead of focusing on scrying for danger, there was no way they could've avoided the usual work on a ship.

I smiled shakily, as if unsure why I was being surrounded. The feeling wasn't hard to fake, nor was the smile.

Someone was trying to trick me, I was sure of it. And they were going at it in a pretty clumsy way, at that. Maybe if I'd been a boy who'd never left his island or visited its port, I would've been fooled into thinking there was nothing suspicious here.

But there were no children here, on the raft or among the fleet. Funny, that. The people of Copper's Cradle had never shied away from exposing their children to life in Midworld, which suggested whoever had conjured this farce of a fleet didn't know much about my home.

I would've been almost sure of that just from how unfamiliar the sailors looked; we hadn't been a large fleet, so everyone had known everyone, by face if not by name. However, it had been the bronze bands on the boats and ships that had tipped me off, along with the colour of these people's clothes.

If that was what they were...

'Hello,' I broke the silence. 'I see you came from the other side? I would be grateful if you showed me the way. You see, I woke up here,' I gestured at the raft and our strange surroundings, 'and I can't quite remember how. I think I was caught in a storm and hit my head,' as I spoke, I scratched it, wincing like I was in pain, 'on my raft. Oh!' I closed my eyes, grinning sheepishly. 'My name's Ovhyn, by the way.'

The Cradlers looked at me for a few moments, then some began laughing. It wasn't the synchronised, grating laughter I'd have expected from these creatures. It sounded human enough, actually, soft, coming from a handful of sailors. The other looked at each other as if they were in on a joke at my expense.

'Not to worry, Ryzhan.' One Cradler, a barrel-chested, middle-aged man with sideburns, waved at me, smiling. Between his girth, paleness and small eyes, he looked like a deep ocean fish someone had stuffed in a burlap sack. He was the only sailor I could see who didn't look lean, so maybe he had decided that, being the biggest, he might as well eat the others. 'We know. No need to fib.'

I bristled, but managed to keep myself from frowning. Being called a liar aleays set me off. My not-inconsiderable pride in my dissembling skills took it poorly, as did the tattered remnant of my integrity, which ocassionally resurfaced when it forgot I lived in Midworld.

'I think you're confusing me,' I replied. 'I can't recall us ever meeting, sir, and I sail alone.' I raised an eyebrow. 'Unremarkably enough for people not to know me by name, much less a wrong one.'

Girthy put his meaty hands on his hips, shaking his fat head. It was fascinating to watch it moving with no neck visible beneath it. I was dismayed at how much effort it'd take to wrap my hands around his throat after I ripped hus grubby mitts off.

'Dammit, boy,' he saif softly, almost mouthing the words. 'Don't you recognise your father?'

I gave him a deadpan look, but the alleged Gharzov met my eyes without difficulty, or saying anything. I looked past him, to see if there wasn't someone eager to step forward and pretend she was Frelzha.

'Who do you believe you are talking to, exactly?' I asked, looking at him but addressing the fleet, in the same tone of voice he was using, hands clasped behind my back. That would've made me seem harmless to most people - how fast could I pull a weapon from behind myself? -, but, if they knew I was a mage, any halfway suspicious gesture would put them on edge.

Though making a calming gesture and speaking in a friendly manner on the surface, I was very much goading them. No one reacted to my movement, though they tripped over each other to answer my question.

Except not really.

'What do you mean, Ryzhan?'

'Forget you in a couple decades? What in the Pit?!' Brief but loud laughter followed this.

'We never stopped lookin' fer ya, lad!' Several grizzled heads nodded earnestly at each other. I wondered if they were trying to reassure me or themselves. Or remind themselves to stay in character.

I continued looking at "Gharzov", but he just crossed his fleshy arms at my questioning expression. Shaking my head, I looked at the fleet, taking in everyone.

'You can drop the façade,' I told them. They should, if they knew what was good for them. I wasn't amused by taunts made at the expense of my lost home. 'Whoever you are, I know you cannot be the people I knew growing up. They're all dead.'

Gharzov nodded. 'At the hands of that monster girl - I can see why you'd think that.'

'Aina,' I snapped, 'didn't do anything out of malice. She had become a lunatic.'

'And who made her look at the moon?' Gharzov retorted. 'Even the lowest lackwit knows to avoid its gaze.'

'The reason doesn't matter anymore. What happened, happened. Besides, she had no reason to believe she'd turn into some island-shattering monster. All our legends only spoke of lunacy causing people to act erratically - at worst, harm themselves and others.'

'And that's better?' The fat man harrumphed. 'That girl, stupid stripling that she was, knew one more pair of hands, with a healthy mind behind them, would always be helpful. By maddening herself, she stole from us all.' Well. If nothing else, this thing was just as annoying as my actual father, though only a fraction as ugly. I suppose even illusions had limits. 'And, one day, her womb could've enriched our fleet.'

Just as disgusting, too. It was exactly this obsession with petty fleets and communities that stopped people from banding together to create a balance to the Great Powers, maybe even form new ones.

But no. We needed this resource, or they could stab our backs when we turned them, or their beliefs clashed with ours, harmless as they were, or a thousand other empty justifications. The worst part was, I understood the reasoning.

As hypocritical as it felt to condemn others for selfishness and paranoia, I had spent enough time alone to understand how self-centred some people were, how prideful some cultures could become, if they endured enough.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

'I'll be sure to tell her she has to become a broodmare after we meet,' I said brightly, smile sharp. 'Anything else? Should I slit my throat now, or are you still pretending to be friendly?'

'Pretending...? Son, what in Midworld are you even on about?' Gharzov sputtered. Then, his eyes narrowed. 'And what do you mean, after you meet? With that...?'

'Whoever I want to meet is my business,' I replied. 'And, please, let us end this charade, shall we? You might know who I am, but I only know who you aren't.'

Gharzov's face became more serious, his eyes sharper. 'Look, boy: I understand why you're suspicious. You think your...friend, killed us all when she destroyed our then-home. And she very well might have,' his chest puffed out a little, 'if it hadn't been for me.'

I held his gaze for what felt like forever, waiting for a sign that he knew how ridiculous that sounded. When none appeared, I couldn't help but burst out into laughter.

'Y-You...' I rubbed my forehead, but never closed my eyes, never took them off him. 'You...what did you do, you old fool? Convince her not to choke on someone as bitter as you?'

He briefly turned his head to spit. 'You think she eats people but still want to go to her?'

'Don't mistake my humour for joy,' I warned him, glaring. If he thought my attempt at staving off brooding meant I was feeling forgiving, he had another thing coming. 'And don't you ever speak that way about my friend again. She's mad, not monstrous.'

'Not mon-dammit, Ryzhan! She slaughtered almost everyone you knew!'

'You'll forgive me,' I sneered at him, eyes hooded, 'if I can't bring myself to care about people who held you up as a pillar of the community.' I looked around. 'Speaking of that...where's your cow of a wife? Still around?'

'Your mother,' he spat, 'is resting. Her knowledge of healing is always needed, so she takes every chance to rest she can.' Gharzov took a deep breath, maybe to calm down. A shame. I'd have liked an excuse to put a hole through his skull.

'Forget that. You wouldn't have cared if she'd killed us all, you say? Not even the children?'

I scoffed, to hide my hesitation. 'Since when have you ever called about children except as tools and future walking wombs? You're barking up the wrong tree, "father". I've watched entire islands sink, newborns and elders together, because that was their choice.'

And it would be a cold day in the Pit before I gave half a damn about the opinion of a man who beat his son like a mule. Unclasping my hands, I lowered them to my sides. Just in case. 'But never mind that. You were just about to lie to me about how you saved the legacy of Copper's Cradle from certain destruction.'

'No lies, Ryz.' It sounded bloody twisted coming from his mouth, even if my parents had called me that long before I had set off to sea, let alone met my crew. 'Although...' He cupped his jowly chin. 'In a way, I suppose you saved us.'

'Explain,' I demanded, just short of growling.

Gharzov raised his hands, but I could've told there was nothing up his sleeves from the fact he had none. 'Magic, Ryzhan. It can awaken when you least expect it. That scare you gave me and your mother? It saved our lives, in the end, when it could have very easily brought our deaths.'

I opened my mouth, but quickly closed it. Could that have happened? Could my father have awakened some sort of magic to protect himself and the Cradlers from Aina's rampage, or maybe escape her?

Yes, in theory. In practice...magic on a scale that large, a spell so precise, performed by someone whose mana had only been awake for minutes at most? Who had, before he had become a mage, been almost braindead?

Had my memories been wrong, altered by Ib, maybe? Had that been some convoluted attempt on the grey giant's part to make me think the way it wanted me to? To what purpose?

Ib, I thought. I know you can hear this. I want this - them - to be a lie. I...

I couldn't bear to be betrayed. Not by it. People had turned on me in the past, when it had seemed the most profitable or moral course of action - there were mage sellers and buyers all across Midworld, and hunters, too -, but none of them had been like a brother to me.

Refusing to show how shaken I was, I steeled myself, and thought, If you can, Ib, I need your help. Make an opening into this nightmare. Give me a sign. Anything.

* * *

Ib looked down at its friend. Just as its tridimensional incarnation cradled Ryzhan's - and Mharra's - twitching bodies, its true self observed them from the depths of the Last Sphere of creation that was the Realm of Forms.

Then, the Mantlemakers crowded around it, and its dismay turned to distaste.

'Yes?' it groused, stifling a sigh.

None of the Mandmade Gods looked at it. Instead, they gestured at the half-phantasmal realm Ryzhan believed he was stuck in.

But Ryz is a mage, Ib thought bleakly. There is little difference between reality and imagination to him.

The worst part was that Mharra was in a similar predicament, despite not being a mage. Wherever their thoughts took them, they could remain there.

Moving the Mantlemakers aside, Ib looked past them, and at the being it had always known - the one, in a way, it had only just met.

'I understand you think this is the only way,' it told the one Midworlders called Mendax when they stopped cursing it. 'But Ryz is not your pawn to move.'

The being, which would've appeared as a vaguely humanoid, colourless silhouette in reality, did not stop watching the proceedings as it answered. 'Who said he is? Whipping the boy into shape is necessary, yes, but that's no reason to be callous.'

Ib scowled. Was this what the Mendax considered being kind?

Walking closer, it put a hand on one of Mendax's appendages. The creature turned to it with an air of exasperation.

'Yes?'

'I know your purpose,' the Idea of Freedom stated. 'You keep the wheels of creation turning, so everything does not fall into nothing.' It leaned closer. 'You believe my crew's pain will sustain creation.'

It was a statement, not a question. Mendax appeared nonplussed. Chuckling, it slipped out of Ib's grasp. 'Absolutely not.' It didn't blink at the sight of Ib's raised, clenched fists. Blowing a raspberry, the creature wrapped two extremities around itself. 'Oh, don't act so outraged, Ib. We both know the value of free will, else one of us would've uplifted everyone there is, or tried to.' A shrewd glint entered its gaze. 'But we are not so free, exactly, are we?'

Ib grunted in agreement. 'Creation is the Dream of some unfathomable being, yes. What of it? If you say you can fight against that, isn't it only because you are dreamed to do so?'

Mendax sniggered. 'You'd be surprised. Well, you wouldn't be if you stopped underestimating yourself. I doubt there's anything unfathomable for you, if you view ignorance as an obstacle.'

'Explain,' Ib ground out.

Getting what it meant, Mendax nodded. 'This has nothing to do with my duty, but certain people are very interested in freeing themselves, and everyone else - and not just among us. I am...' It steepled its fingers. 'Facilitating that.'

'Because you're bored?'

Mendax rolled its eyes. 'Because it's the right thing to do, you lump. I do have a heart, you know. I just use my head most of the time.'

Ib lowered its fists, but did not unclench them. 'Thank you, then, Remaker.'

'You're welcome. We're all in this together...'

As Mendax trailed off, its gaze drifting to its dark opposite, and the antlered, decaying monster that fought for as much as against it, Ib walked to stand besides it.

'We'll take care of 'em,' Mendax said easily. 'Don't you worry. You have your part to play here.' Some reproach entered its voice. 'And you can get off my friggin' back, while you're at it. You wanted to put your mates through the wringer whether I stuck my nose in this or not.'

Mendax's silhouette changed, shifting like heat haze. For a moment, a bearded man, dark of skin and grey of hair, stood in the shapeless being's place. He was as scarred and grizzled as his dark green uniform - the patch that had once borne the flag of a nation replaced by those of the worldwide coalition it was part of - was ragged.

'True,' Ib agreed. 'But only because it is necessary for their growth.'

'Oh, don't I know all about that,' Mendax muttered, fingering a small, easy-to-miss ring on his right hand. Then, its formless appearance returned, images of a black-eyed, fanged corpse, with grey skin and hair, flashing within its body.

'The dead man will hate you for it,' Ib pointed out.

'So will the Scholar,' Mendax agreed. 'But if we survive enough for morality to become a matter of concern, that means my duty is done.'

* * *

I looked at Gharzov, searching for any tells of dishonesty. How much could I trust myself, though? This place was like poison to my senses.

'Your...magic,' I began haltingly. 'What did you do?'

Gharzov smiled modestly, like he was worried about being called a braggart, were he to describe his escape in detail. Nothing like the man who'd beaten me half to death so many times growing up, but if this was indeed my father, if he had indeed survived...how much had changed?

Enough that the Cradlers wouldn't try to take revenge on me? It seemed unlikely, but my magic kept slipping out of my grasp, so, if this was a ploy to make me lower my guard, I doubted I could either defend myself or escape.

'That agonised trance you left me and your mother in? I was awoken from it by fear,' Gharzov said. 'I felt the monster appear, heard it roar, and that scared all the pain away.' He stepped out of his boat and onto my raft, trying to put his hands on my shoulders, but I walked backwards, and he lowered them, quietly disappointed.

That was new. Usually, my father's disappointment in me was announced by screams and fists flying.

'I thought about how we - all of us - needed to get away, and the world warped around us, like fabric around pebbles,' he continued. 'We found ourselves on a stretch of sea, with no islands in sight, not even any rocks.'

At this, there were some huffs and mumbling about the bad old days.

'At first...I admit, I was angry at you, Ryzhan. I thought you were a selfish little bastard, who, instead of using his newly-awakened magic to help his people, used it to throw a tantrum.' Tears filled the corners of Gharzov's eyes, and we wipped them with a hand. 'But, while we continued our journey for new islands, and looked for you at the same time, wanting to take revenge...we remembered the thing your friend had become.'

Were those shudders among the Cradlers theatrical? Humourous?

'We were terrified. That it would find us, somehow, and finish what it had started. We didn't know how, but we'd never even heard about a moon-touched this monstrous, either. We weren't willing to take risks.'

At this, his eyes became a little distant, but warm, like his small smile. 'It was your mother who came up with the idea. She suggested that I should use my magic to make us escape the monster's notice. In addition to that, we stuck to Midworld's darkest areas. We sailed through storms and fog, any patch of gloom that could hide us from its mundane senses while my magic diverted its arcane perception.'

That would've explained why they looked so pale and harried - or, in Gharzov's case, as such an useful mage, he would've been guaranteed preferential treatment, hence the plumpness.

'Well,' I said dryly, just to avoid staying silent (a habit that had started more than a few tavern brawls), 'it seems you succeeded.' Then, more seriously, 'Don't worry. I believe Aina is still in there, somewhere. I doubt she will want to harm you once she comes to her senses.' And if she was a monster, if she couldn't, or wouldn't, be changed...I would give her peace.

But that would come later. For now...

'If you say so,' Gharzov replied, sounding as uncertain as I felt. Then, looking around, his shoulders shook with silent mirth. 'Look at us, talking to each other on boats, like strangers.' He turned around. 'I'll have to tell your mother all about this, Ryz. You should come, talk before we celebrate.'

'Celebrate?' I repeated, taking half a step in his direction as he stepped back into his boat. 'What?'

He looked over his shoulder, expression bemused. 'You, coming back to us...? You are coming back, right, son?'

Of course not, I thought immediately. I must find Aina, and Three...Mharra does not deserve losing his lover forever. And Ib...

I had to speak with the grey giant. But, since it wasn't answering me, that meant I had to get out of wherever I was first.

A part of me wanted this to be real. The stupid, childish part that also wished Aina had never become...whatever she was; it wanted to live in a world where my parents didn't hate me while everyone was indifferent to their cruelty. It wanted the life it never had, as was the wont of mankind. Living in the midst of a loving community, with Aina safe and sane by my side.

But another part of me, the one that had been born during the first beating I'd received for no reason, and grown during my lonely years, knew this was wishful thinking. Not just because this story was so farfetched; not even because Aina was not human anymore, no matter what I wanted.

Because they had made me doubt Ib. This bloated, dead-eyed bastard had made me think the gentle soul I'd prayed daily would remember its past and find peace was manipulating me.

I didn't care. I didn't give a damn whether Ib was pushing me towards some obscure goal. I'd joined its crew lying through my teeth, hiding behind their protection for the sake of survival alone.

And I knew my friend, who'd stood by me during my waking nightmares and saved me from that maddening fog, would never do anything to hurt me, its love of freedom be damned.

And, despite that ridiculous "explanation", I could still see these freaks' skin was as smooth as marble, or wax.

They weren't sailors. They weren't my people, or people at all. They were monsters, some misbegotten creation of this Vhaarn-forsaken place. Moving, talking props, maybe, in a play put together by those smug, cackling bastards who'd nearly shattered my body with their bickering.

And they weren't even the most unnatural thing about this place. The ramshackle raft that could go nowhere, the water that reflected nothing, the darkness too thick to pierce, the sky I couldn't look at...

Subtle. As subtle as a knife to the gut. What else was missing? Me, running in place, held down by my memories, struggling to really look at myself, to see beyond pessimism and find a purpose hugher than unhappy, fearful survival...

'You are not my father,' I told the creature, which froze, inhumanly stiff. 'You're a sad joke, played on the weakest part of my mind. And I am not laughing.'

And, would you look at that? The moment I'd stopped feeling sorry for myself and started thinking about things that mattered, the sweating, the weakness, had stopped. If it had been blunter, I'd have been concussed.

Well. If not being a snivelling cynic was what took to accomplish anything here, I knew exactly what to do.

I had more than enough rage to slaughter these worthless ghosts.

'Ryzhan...' the creature said reproachfully. 'You will come to us.'

Forget it, I thought, dashing at it and putting a mana-enhanced fist through its skull. It felt like I was parting hard but wet clay rather than punching through flesh...and there was no blood.

Then, it turned its head to stare at me, like an owl, with my fist still inside it. Too fast for me to perceive, it freed itself, snapping my arm like a twig before leaping at me, kneeing my crotch hard enough to split my flesh to my navel.

Before I could shriek in pain, it unhinged its jaw and bit down on mine, twisting its head on its neck to rip it off. A backhand knocked my remaining teeth out, before the rest of the ghoulish fleet joined in, tearing me to shreds.

This is it, I thought through the mind-splitting pain, my consciousness somehow holding itself together. This is...the revenge...I...

Aina...

But that wasn't the end. I came to, back crooked and knees bent. A look in a dirty puddle revealed I had been patched together from the parts of my body that hadn't been eaten. The hunchbacked grotesque that looked back at me with tearful eyes was chained to the wall behind him, a pickaxe in his hands.

I was in a copper mine. Back on my home island.

A slender, twisted figure, shrouded so I could only make out its long, dirty hair, was talking to the Gharzov-thing in sharp whispers. It pointed a needle-clawed finger at me, and Gharzov nodded.

'Go on, boy!' he barked. 'Thank your mother for treating you!'

I opened a wired-together, misshapen jaw to insult them, but only a whimper came out. The Frelzha creature moved closer to me, half crawling, half walking on her fingertips, reminding me of an ape dragging its knuckles.

I caught a glimpse of a circular mouth, filled with layers of thick, short fangs, before it latched its maw over my face, forcing my mouth open. My jaw hung by a thread.

Gharzov joined her, forcing me to the ground with a hand on my shoulder. 'You want to talk about rage? What do you know about that? You're just a child, who thought he could run away and escape responsibility. Rage? Oh, I'll show you rage...'

His throat bulged, and a river of thick blood, filled with chunks of gore, streamed out of it, seeping down my burning throat. Immediately, the pain and confused rage of everyone I'd ever abadoned, tricked and hurt lanced through my mind, and I fell to the ground, trembling until I felt my bones would shake apart.

'This is rage, son,' the creature leered. 'You'll have time to learn all about it. Once you forget all about your circus freaks and your monster bitch, you'll only have room in your heart for rage. Believe me...' it leaned down. 'Soon, you'll no longer remember them. You'll forget where all this betrayed anger is coming from. But you'll always remember you betrayed your family, and failed to run away from your people.'

The rest of the freakish fleet filled the mine, filling my sight with ugly, hateful faces. They tore my body apart just as the memories ripped my mind in half, leaving me trapped, too hurt too move, but never able to die, to go mad: the needle-clawed monster kept healing me.

'Welcome home, Ryzhan. You'll love us once you remember your place~'

* * *

Ib's face swirled with hatred as it peered into the future. A myriad myriad paths began and ended with Ryzhan giving in to his anger, and becoming an even more wretched monster than he believed he was.

In one, overcome by his memories, he broke, and remade himself. The resulting walking cadaver stalked Midworld, two half-formed monstrosities in the shape of his parents fused to his spine, directing him, while smaller ones, with the faces of his people, eternally gnawed on his insides.

This monstrous amalgam would seek out every Midworlder who dared to have lived a life less painful than his, and trap them in a hell forged of their worst memories, until all of Midworld was a single, eternal scream of tortured remembrance.

And, in the midst of it all, Ryzhan's remains would stand and laugh, and weep, face torn by a manic grin.

It would not allow this. Damn Ryz's chance to choose. Damn the Mantlemakers and their twisted games, and damn Mendax and its labyrinthine plots. Ib would not allow its friend to suffer anymore, and Ryzhan would never become that thing as long as it lived.

Ryzhan, it thought, sending its aetheric voice to him even as it spoke to his trembling body on the deck. Metres away, Mharra burst into tortured laughter, bloody tears streaming down his face as the corners of his mouth began to bleed. He had his own battle to fight, but Ib would not let him do it alone. This is Ib. I-

Ib! I-I-Ib! Ryzhan thought back. Please! Please! I can't die now! We've lost Three, the captain is alone...Ryzhan's mouth parted in a silent scream. Aina...I l-love her. She must know. I beg you...she must know...help me...

Ib smiled, its broken laugh filling the air, drowning out the disappointment of the Manmade Gods. Perhaps they had hoped for a sadder ending.

Foolish. Even now, in the middle of his worst nightmare, Ryzhan wanted nothing more than to help those he loved.

'Yes,' Ib said, 'brother.'