Aina

'How many things can you focus on at once?'

Aina gives Mendax a curious look. 'I suppose it depends on what you refer to.'

'That it does.' The faceless man nods, with an air that makes her think he appreciates the careful response. Had she simply said she was good, he could've taken it as her being boastful, and mocked or sought a way to humble her, as the Meddler of legend did to the prideful. Granted, those targetted were later revealed to have slighted him in some manner, but that didn't mean she should push her luck.

Even if Mendax was acting less and less like the whimsical monster she'd grown up hearing about with every exchange.

'How about this, then: humans can only concentrate on so many separate events at once, before their senses and minds are overtasked and their focus on certain things begins slipping. Thoughts are like weights on the mind, after all.'

'Oh? The Brothers of the Twin Burden were right, then...' the Vhaarnist sect claims (claimed? She hasn't asked about them in a while; they might've been wiped out) that, much like one can only carry so many loads, so they can only think so many thoughts. The Brothers say that this was because the body and mind are linked, mirrors of each other, and that fouling one means ruining one's whole being as a result. Which isn't wrong, but doesn't make the peddling of their awful-tasting "spiritual cleansers" more bearable, or their merchants less annoying.

Mendax inclines his head. 'They weren't wrong,' he allows, 'which is more than can be said for most, from where I'm standing.'

'You're sitting.'

'And very comfortable, not that you asked.' He sniffs. 'I will not call my host lousy, but she wouldn't perish if she offered some tea, anything.'

Aina laughs. 'I'm as much of a guest as you are.' More, because she didn't break in an make herself at home. 'I wouldn't know the first thing about finding refreshments. The layout is always shifting, and-'

He holds up a limb that was once a hand, but is now covered in fanged suckers and tapered to a point. 'I get it. I can tell you haven't learned to make something from nothing. It's understandable why you'd avoid experimenting.'

His tone is sympathetic, but Aina still does not like being talked down to, especially regarding something that is hardly her fault. Her monstrous half changes like the weather, helping one moment and hindering the next. It is not out of malice, she doesn't think: it is more like a child testing out what they are, or someone with an addled mind trying to centre themselves.

The King and Queen tell her that allowing them to research her other form - taking the shed skin, scales and hair to their hidden laboratories, observing her when she's out of her healthy mind - is useful for helping people stand up to such creatures, ones without a human aspect to rein them in. Aina does not know the full capabilities of her hosts (and even if she did, Mendax's manner has left her less keen on simply believing things she has heard but not seen) but she doesn't think they're talking about their own safety, or that of their creations or subjects, when they bring up such things.

It might be that their powers are too great to judge for her arcane sense, but the diarchs have always seemed more impressive to her than her monster. But then, all mountains whose peaks are hidden in the clouds seem endless from the ground...

Regardless of the truth, Mendax is right. She has not tried to draw out the power of her other self more than necessary, and she is unlikely to start. But...speaking of her lunacy, she thinks she has caught on to what he was trying to say earlier.

'You mentioned humans,' she points out. 'Not people. I can...when my reason doesn't leave me, that is, I believe I can think..."more"." She scrunches her face up slightly. 'No, that is not quite it. It is more like my thoughts beget themselves...'

Much like how someone can run for longer if they pick up speed instead of starting with a sprint - focus on one idea being a walking pace, in this case -, the more she contemplates, the more her mind broadens. Trying to jump straight to that stage of inhuman awareness results in headaches at best, and can cause trances that leave her a passenger in her moon-twisted body.

Mendax listens, and seems satisfied with the explanation. Shortly after she stops, he huffs, before grinning apologetically. 'Truth is, hen, it's just me having high standards. Most humans wouldn't even know themselves after you went through, much less be capable of switching back and forth, or using the gained power for their own benefits...' He lays a hand on her arm. 'Don't mind the joke, will you, hen? I can make what I need.' He hesitates for a moment, seemingly considering making a self-deprecating jape, then changes his mind, becoming more serious. 'That being said - you probably want to focus on coming to terms with what you are, for when your friend catches up with you.'

Having got used to Mendax's sense of humour by now, she opens her mouth to say that whatever she chooses to do with Ryzhan is their business, but he cuts her off, at the same time pulling his hand back. 'I mean, imagine how he would feel if he saw you losing your mind, unable to remember yourself? You know he detests it when people forget such things, even if they aren't close to him.'

"And you are", he all but says. Aina thinks he is being generous. Aye, she has kept Ryzhan in her heart, all this time, but how close to him can she really call herself? They haven't even truly seen each other since they were children.

Hanging her head, she looks down at her hand, directing her will at the appendage as she twists her fingers like she is cupping something. In the span of heartbeats, her skin becomes grey and covers itself in scales, while under it, flesh and blood are replaced by ichor and matter spun from her lunacy.

Despite the fishlike hide being several times thicker than her skin, it does not deaden her sense of touch: she can feel her fingertips on her palm as she curls her hand, despite not pressing down with her claws. It feels like she is wearing thin gloves. 'I understand,' she says softly, willing her other hand to change in a mirror of this transformation. 'But I do not need Ryzhan's dismay as motivation. My own is enough.' Her eyes flash as she lifts them, meeting Mendax's hidden ones. 'I do not desire to lose myself, either. Do not think I am waiting here because I am bereft of purpose without him.'

She could make a life for herself, will, should Ryzhan spurn her. She is waiting until she can master herself, which would be no easy task for any woman her age, moon madness aside. Normalcy was snatched away before she could learn to appreciate it; if she wants to return to it, it cannot be done before she understands enough not to rip Midworld apart in her insanity.

Aina lets go, and the monstrous flesh recedes with a peeling sensation, as if she were taking off tight garments. With it comes the sensation of peace that follows a transformation, especially a willing, successful one. Like a breath one does not realise they're holding, or a burden they don't notice until they put it down, the strain on her body, mind and soul falls away.

Her thoughts are clearer as they realign, bringing with them memories. Eyes wide in sudden understanding, she turns to Mendax, only barely stopping herself from pointing. 'I know you!' she says, then realises it makes her sound mad, mayhap senile, without an explanation. 'From before, before here. I thought you a stranger, but...we've met.'

'Aye,' he agrees, sounding pleased. 'I recall you saying people like me can help even you feel normal.'

She flushes, but does not let him distract her. 'I was younger, foolish. You didn't catch me at the age where folk think before they speak.' She gives him a questioning look. 'Is that why you said nothing? I was quite alarmed by you appearing in here out of thin air, I'll have you know. I was close to calling for help.' Or cutting loose and trying to settle matters herself.

'Oh, Clock and Weave have no issue with me, I assure you.' Mendax does not sound anywhere as boastful as most acquainted with a Great Powers' rulers would be. But then, she supposes he wouldn't. 'You think they could miss me unless I was hiding? They're obsessive, not blind.'

Mendax does not sound nearly as pleased with himself as most acquaintances of the Great Powers' rulers, but then, she supposes he wouldn't.

Aina does not bother to ask if they know each other; obviously, the diarchs at least know of the Meddler. She has another question, one that still hasn't been answered. 'Why, then? Why not remind me?'

Mendax says nothing, but smiles, placing a finger above his scarred lips - there is a face under the cowl, now, though it lasts for only a thousandth of a thousandth of a heartbeat before it is gone, replaced by shadows and mist. He gestures at the screens, turns to them and, at the same time, words enter her mind. 'Take some time and think. It's bad luck to talk during shows, you know. For the actors, I mean.'

Her lunacy, more alert now, bristles at being ordered around by a being similar in nature, if not in power. Not that Mendax was addressing it, Aina thinks, as she turns to watch the screens as well, pushing her monster down. As they begin playing, she follows the Meddler's advice, and thinks about what happened.

The monstrous arms responding to her command...that is not new. Not as such. She has called upon them before, and summoned other limbs, too: not just legs and wings and tentacles, but things for which man has no name. She has even managed to do it around other people, at the request of the King and Queen.

But...she's never held onto her sanity for long after doing it, whether alone or with others. Her other half seemed to see being called upon as an invitation to take charge, and often swept her under for the duration of the resulting rampage.

Mendax surely knew the consequences, with how well-informed he seemed to be about her moon madness. But, Aina thinks, it wasn't confidence in his power or wit that made him do it.

It was confidence in her. She finds herself smiling, musing that she should be flattered at a living legend believing in her so, but in truth, she is more pleased with herself.

She thinks she has caught onto the being's scheme. Something she is sure each of his victims thought at some point, but...

'By taunting me about my incompetence,' she says in a neutral tone, not glancing at Mendax, 'you goaded me into testing my control. You knew I could have better results this time, if I was determined enough.' Her smile returns. 'Which will help. Both with Ryzhan, and with the crisis you said everyone will contribute to stopping.' Now, she turns to look at the hooded man. 'I wager things went as you wanted?'

He doesn't respond right away, instead appearing intent on watching Ryzhan as he makes his way to the stage. Then, whistling softly, he says, 'They certainly didn't go as I didn't want, sugar.' Whistling louder now, jauntily, he adds, almost as an afterthought, 'Ain't you sharp as a tack...'

Aina rolls her eyes, not dignifying that with a reply. 'In any case,' she says, rubbing her eyes with two fingers, 'I must thank you. For stopping my shaking,' she adds hurriedly, unsure how glad she is at being tricked into becoming better. 'You didn't have to.'

Mendax nods, leaning forward with a hand on one knee, like her people used to, before Copper's Cradle sank and there was such joy in watching ships come and go. 'I do what needs doing. No point in being a bellend about it.'

* * *

Ryzhan

I confess: for a time, I entertained the thought of putting on a silly scene. Talking animals, practical jokes, hidden actors wryly responding to overly-serious monologues. That sort of thing. Doing the work of a whole troupe was possible, thanks to my magic.

But I was not in the sort of wholesome state of mind necessary for such a spectacle. That was the sort of thing you put on for children, or grown folk who survived Midworld without losing the best parts of their youthful selves. I was in too grim a mood to make these puppets laugh with pranks.

Speaking of children...the thought had come to me late, after the Aina copy departed and I was left alone to prepare, but I noticed I hadn't seen any being smaller or younger-looking than a grown man. It was hard to say if any members of my audience were youths, with their wretched appearances and demure manner: they reminded me of those children raised by overly harsh parents, who thought they were instilling discipline but were actually raising liars who knew how to make excuses, look busy and avoid trouble.

I had some experience with such folks.

When I had noticed the lack of brats, who got underfoot as surely as rats on the average ship, I was troubled, and the uneasiness soon gave way to anger. The construct hadn't said anything about this, but it made sense. Why would it discriminate for the young when it didn't do so for women, or the elderly, or the sick? Pit, it probably saw it as vile not to twist the bodies of all its victims into these identical shells.

Face after face - all imagined, for I'd never met them, but no less heart-wrenching to look at - passed through my mind. How many, I wondered? How many boys who'd never grown a whisker and girls who'd never had their first bleeding? How many young souls had Serene Rest robbed of their future?

Part of me noted that this outrage was ridiculous; I've likely caused the deaths of thousands of youths by abandoning their ships right before a crisis. But the human spirit was not a thing of reason, not solely. And those I left behind, I left in the clutches of chance, knowing they might well make it through grit and luck. Those who washed up on this island's shores had no such possibilities in their future...or at least, I hadn't met anyone else who could resist its cloying influence like I could.

I wondered about that. Midworld was so great, so old, that surely, at some point, some powerful sailor must've found themselves here? Had they left at the first occasion, maybe warning others of the living, mind-stealing island? Had they been killed and thrown into the sea by Serene Rest, after it fashioned weapons powerful enough to overcome their body, if not their mind? I knew its control over its substance was refined enough to create such things. It could, after all, make creatures that resembled people almost completely.

I think it was that revelation, that there were no children to be seen (much less heard, I thought, remembering the saying) that pushed me to choose another kind of comedy. One might've argued that these circumstances were kinder, that it was better for whole families to be remade like this rather than leave the sprogs clutching the legs of things that could no longer remember having them, loving them.

I disagreed. The only philosophical considerations worth entertaining here were whether Serene Rest should be razed and shattered, or made to suffer for as long as it could survive, in whatever manner such things as it could be made to suffer. Taking away the toys it had made for itself would've been a start, I mused.

But that would come later, if it ever did.

Black humour went best with dark colours, unless one was feeling particularly ridiculous - for absurdity often went well with dark jests. In that regard, my black trousers and dark green vest might've fitted, no pun intended, but I thought that they looked too serious for what I had in mind. So, reaching within with my magic, I remembered garments I had worn on many occasions, for the sake of anonymity.

The cloak spun from my memories was as dark as octopus ink, and appeared to twist in the air like that substance would in water, of its own accord. In reality, I was remembering a similar cloak fluttering, wagering the small movements would make things more dramatic or comical, as needed.

As I formed the cloak, I also remembered noise and light and smoke: a grey cloud bloomed from the light that flashed in front of me with the sound of a thunderclap. From the audience, I heard muttering and humming, alongside a series of soft gasps. I didn't let that make me cocksure; from any other spectators, it could've been interpreted as awe preempting louder reactions, but the Rested likely couldn't be lively at all.

I swept out an arm, and wind howled through the room, born from the power of the magically strong movement. When the smoke was dispersed, I stood cloaked, cane in hand. Thanks to the wide, loose sleeves, my hands weren't visible - and, with the remembered gloom I brought into being after moments, dimming the lights, the magical instrument seemed an extension of some ebony creature's limb.

This solemn, ominous atmosphere would be shattered soon, the contrast between it and what followed helping the actual jokes land better. Speaking of landings...

I brought the cane down, and it was like I had struck a gong, rather than the stage of living stone that had been assembled for me. Doubtlessly, Serene Rest saw giving part of itself up (likely temporarily. I did not think the island had it in itself to let go of anything it couldn't take back) as a small price for pleasing me in any way. If it could get into my good graces, I might just stay, it likely told itself.

Gods...the thought of becoming a mindless ox like these other poor bastards was disgusting enough, but who knew if my memories and thoughts were the only thing that might be taken from me, should my guard slip?

I imagined the island unmooring itself from its hunting ground, prowling Midworld with a twisted version of my magic at its disposal. Who knew what remembered horrors it could bring back into being?

That nightmarish future would never come to pass, if I had anything to say. And I all but knew that my journey here was meant to temper both my magic and my character; Vhaarn willing, I would return stronger and wiser than I had left.

My only worry should be making sure the island didn't somehow follow, or construct hunters to send after me. I hadn't heard stories of escapees from Serene Rest being pursued, but then, I hadn't raised the subject. "Aina's" silence on the matter suggested that, if anyone had left, they had escaped successfully. I didn't think she could've kept herself from gloating about saving the foolish from their doom and bringing them back to their deserved paradise, et cetera.

'My, but 'tis dark in here,' I said, testing my voice and finding it good. Nodding to myself, I paced to the edge of the stage like a hobbled old man, leaning on my cane with both hands. The rapid, forceful movements suggested great hurry, but I was dragging my feet, in every sense, so that I was moving slower than an ordinary man could.

When I stopped so that a fold of cloth found itself under my booth, I made as if to trip, which took a great deal of effort for me: with the speeds mana could push me to, I was used to turns far more violent than such a movement. Nevertheless, I let out a panicked "Woah!" as I staggered in place, arms spinning, one clutching my cane. Finally, I let myself topple forward.

In a motion too fast for a human, but still slow enough to be seen, I stabbed the floor (there were, thankfully, a few metres between the stage and the first row of seats, or I would've tried a different trick) with my cane, pushing on it the moment my feet left the ground. I wasn't actually sure how plausible these acrobatics would've been without mana, but then, I wasn't relying on muscle alone.

A boyish grin split my face as I balanced on the cane. The handstand lasted for several moments, quiet "oohs" from the Rested filling my ears, and, with childlike boldness, I decided why not do it onehanded?

This next trick took some sleight of hand: while my cane was tough enough to handle my weight and strength, it was still a fairly thin stick, and not enchanted to balance itself or perform other such wonders. Whenever it wavered, which was often, I had to readjust it, though thankfully, between my speed and voluminous robe, I doubt the watchers caught on to what was happening. Indeed, as the question that came suggested...

'How are you doing that?' a Rested asked, their face almost humanlike in curiosity.

My own visage, covered by unnatural shadows, only consisted of patches of pale skin (though I'd noticed I was getting tanner lately, relatively speaking, as I did at sea or in other windy places) and eyes that blazed like green fires. The inhuman appearance was, honestly, not necessary for the show - but who's ever entered theatre to be practical?

'With ease, dear fellow!' My smug thunderclap of a voice, crafted through remembered loudness, was not necessary either, but I enjoyed using it. What the Pit...I'd spent enough time thinking about what was necessary. I needed to begin living again, or I'd die glum and paranoid, like a thousand thousand times a thousand thousand sailors past had.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

'You might be wondering why I am upside down?' Not waiting for a response - or tacking on some joke about how I was upside down because I wasn't on my feet, something I was sure would've tempted my captain -, I added, 'It is for the ambience, gentlefolk, the ambience! You see, in only a fraction of my worldly span, my life was turned upside down. So it is only proper...'

They didn't really need my explanation, I think. If the Rested were truly lobotomised (though I was wary of using that adjective. How much did I know about lobotomies, after all?), then their minds, brains, whichever the procedure concerned, had been altered selectively. That is, they did not seem to be stupider overall; instead, certain facets of their thinking process appeared lessened. Whatever part of the brain concerned expressivity had clearly been affected, in my opinion.

There was some dismay shortly after the true start of the performance, at the parts concerning my boyhood. As I would learn after I finished, the sadness was unrelated to my parents' ineptness in of itself, but rather, to the choices I had made after leaving my past behind.

'Imagine!' I crowed, pressing a hand against my face as I flipped to land on my feet. 'Imagine, being the poor fool who made prey of himself, because of childhood fears! All of that, for nothing!'

My laugh, to some surprise on my own part, was not forced. The lengths I had gone to, for the sake of my safety, were, in fact, absurd. Oh, yes, it'd all seemed reasonable at the time, but what insanity doesn't? And now, looking back...the paranoia, the things it had made me do...it was actually hilarious, in a bleak sort of way.

Now, not everyone found such things funny. My current audience seemed as torn as their insides doubtlessly were on how to react, which a spiteful part of me found a welcome contrast to their usually empty faces. I had been chased out of more than one considerably boorish inn or tavern for "bringing down the mood". Utter lies, as you can imagine. I am far too charming to upset anyone, much less people as seasoned as those who have sailed Midworld for decades.

I neglected sharing details about my crew, lest the island get the idea to lure them here or send its puppets after them, if it could. Ib could defend itself, I was sure, but I got the feeling the grey giant would not have appreciated my journey here resulting in it getting an unannounced visit. The more I imagined the scenario, the louder my instincts screamed "Failure!".

I agreed. Making Serene Rest take a more active interest in the wider world would've made me an accomplice to the murder of countless minds and souls, if not bodies - and the resulting, unending desecration of the corpses would be worse than mere death.

As for the others...Mharra was a resourceful man. I had no doubt that, now that he had been pushed to confront his past, he would find a way out of the island's mind games, or perhaps avoid them altogether.

And then there was Three, gone beyond my reach but not from my heart. Beyond Serene Rest's reach? I was not sure, but I did not want to wager anything. If the island learned about him, became curious and somehow found and twisted him, I'd never forgive myself, even if Mharra did.

So, when I did speak of my recent journeys, I made sure to keep references to my crewmates vague, so that they could be assumed to be almost any species. This took some spice out of the storytelling...the telling itself, that is. With some mana turned into light and bend, and the voices of my crew remembered, I was able to bring my modified tale to life in a way that required no costumes or props.

I only had so much to work with while keeping the identities of those involved secret, but I like to think, at least for people who saw excitement about as often as I saw land that didn't sink, it was interesting enough.

'And that damned boat, so temperamental!' I pressed a hand to my face, turning and tilting my head slightly so that, of my features, the audience could only catch a single eye. I was getting closer to the present in my retelling, and, as I did so, I wondered whatever had happened to the steamer's spawn, or whatever that thing was to our ship. Was it still waiting for my return, floating next to the shore and ready to go at any moment? Or had it perceived the peril of this place and begun ramming against the shore, seeking to split and sink this island? And maybe hit me if it was lucky...

I mean, even if it hadn't senses me being attacked, if Serene Rest had reached out towards what passed for its mind, the contraption would've struck back on principle.

In any case, there was not much of the story left. I almost began speaking about my encounter with Serene Rest, whilst debating whether to couch its assault on my mind in polite terms or be blunt, when one of the Rested held up a hand, signalling me to halt. 'And then I...yes? Is something the matter?' I asked after a moment's hesitation. Understanding came quickly: they must've been told of how I'd come here, either as humans spoke to each other or mind to mind, the island's knowledge filling their heads.

Whether these folk were people in their own right or toys in Serene Rest's dollhouse, they knew what had happened, so there was no need to go over it. Although...I wondered. Had the island not glimpsed enough of my past to create a simulacrum of Aina? Why not share that, too, with its prey?

Hope kindled in my heart. What if the Rested were not as helpless as they looked? What if, with enough of a push, they could free themselves? Keeping the masses ignorant, unaware of even the possibility of a better life, had been a beloved tool of tyrants since time immemorial. If...

The Rested who had held up their hand now rose from their seat, walking closer to the stage. My actor's pride prickled - what, was I not entertaining enough? -, but I let the nonsensical vexation go. This was the equivalent of a screaming outburst, from a more lively person. There had to be a reason.

When they stopped to look up at me, their face was crinkled by a hopeful smile. 'Are you going to stay, then?' they murmured.

'Aye...the show is not over,' I replied, playing the fool. It looked like another attempt to change my mind, by hook or crook, was coming.

I know not whether the Rested bought my act, but they shook their head, before rephrasing the question. 'No. Are you going to remain?'

'No,' I answered, unable to keep some acid out of my voice. 'Ask the woman who speaks for you, or the one behind her. She'll tell you why, I am sure.'

The Rested held an arm out to the side, hand open and facing upwards as if presenting some wares for my inspection. 'What purpose is there in returning? You have never known aught but woe, from cradle to manhood.'

'One could see it that way,' I acquiesced. 'But I have found joy too, and learned to cherish it.'

'Have you?' They sounded more pitying than doubtful. It did not rankle less. 'Joy in what? The friends you speak so obliquely of?'

Fhaalqi's talons...had the lack of detail made me look insincere? I could've wept at the though of getting into trouble for my dishonesty, again.

'My crewmates are who they are,' I snapped, 'and that is not for you to know. Now, I would like you to return to your seat and let me resume the show. If you have got bored, do everyone else a favour and leave.'

It lowered its arm and, with both by its sides, stepped back, stopping right when the other Rested, standing up, matched its posture. They crossed their arms in uncanny synchronisation, reminding me more of a mantis wasp swarm than a human crowd. I recognised the posture, from dozens of inn and city guards: I was not getting away.

Or so they thought, at least. I've always enjoyed proving fools wrong, and not just for the sake of my pride, though it often benefitted anyway.

'You must remain,' they intoned, sounding for all like a giant than a group, so little difference was there between their voices. 'Will you return to the wider world to stew in misery and spread it to others? Even if you truly wished to refuse healing, your place would still bee here.'

'Aye, I'm sure you'd leave my mind untouched,' I sneered, cane at the ready. 'Enough. I no longer wish to perform. Make way.'

At first, I had been quite happy to see the hall filled with Rested, but now, with them blocking the path to the door, I was once again reminded of how what we saw as gifts at first often turned out poisoned, much like the anger and hatred Fhaalqi had given to man.

Predictably, they did not budge. I was preparing to jump over them, or straight through the building, with remembered strength, when fog filled the chamber, quickly swallowing all features and leaving only the Rested and myself as visible. This, much like what followed, happened far faster than I could've perceived without my mana. The fog was preceded by what my arcane sense, intertwined with my hearing, registered as a hiss and pop, though it was far faster than sound could travel.

The Rested crossed the gap between us faster than even that, and it was only thanks to my rememebered speed that I was able to fend them off. Pulling my cane apart, I pointed my sword at the throat of the Rested closest to me, while holding my staff, crackling and topped with a sphere of mana, towards the others.

'Do not be foolish,' I urged. 'What does it matter whether I leave or not? I am one man.'

'Everyone deserves salvation,' they droned, eyes alight with the passion of fanatics. When they leapt at me, I no longer resulted to threats. My sword flashed out, carving through handfuls of bodies that made steel look like rotten string. As the rested fell apart, cleaved in half at the waist or down the middle of their heads, I mused that the island must've empowered them. They had not felt like this earlier, had not felt like much at all, in fact. If so, Serene Rest was a subtler thaumaturge than I'd judged it as. Even now, I could not feel any more energy from the Rested than from a common stick.

I sidestepped and slipped under punches so fast fists were wreathed in flame from friction, lopping off limbs and torsos. Burst of mana flew from my staff, each burning Rested to smoke and less than smoke by the dozen. When I saw the pile of dismembered bodies clambering back up, limbs and appendages flying back to them like iron filings to the metal that called, I turned my staff their way, blasting them to less than steam before they could find their footing once again.

In less than a thousandth of a heartbeat, it was over, with me standing amidst fog that felt strangely empty. According to the magic that overlaid my mundane senses, the fixtures weren't actually gone, I just could not touch them. Scoffing at my Gift's inclination towards sophistry, I moved to either find an exit or make one, weapons in hand. No new enemy reared their head, but I knew better than to think that an admission of defeat. Pit, I was surprised the floor - which I could feel but not see - didn't break open under my feet to allow in some new monster created by Serene Rest, or the island itself.

There was no light to tell time by, and I had no timepiece on my. I could only count my breaths and heartbeats, which I did for hours as I sought a means of escape. All the while, I remembered strength, speed, raw mana for greater blasts, but neither my limbs, my sword nor my magic could touch anything. I might as well have been playacting at war.

It was at the thirteenth hour that she appeared.

'What a moving reunion,' I cooed, turning to face her with a blast charged and my sword glowing white with remembered heat. I was glad for deciding to strengthen my body during my search, else I would have been turned to ash in just by stepping near the blazing blade, much less holding it. 'Wherever were you while I retraced my path? One would think you'd enjoy seeing me scampering about, with how you tried to put me on strings. Or didn't you want to go over what you already know from rummaging through my head?'

Aina's doppelganger was dressed more modestly now, not like when she'd recently tried to seduce me. It mattered not. I was still going to turn the lying creature to a pile of offal, or whatever Serene Rest had spun her from. I could hear no footsteps as she seemingly glided over the hidden floor, nor any of the little sounds that showed a human was alive. Her hands, hidden by her sleeves like mine had been at the start of the spectacle, were clasped in front of her.

I narrowed my eyes, ready for her to pull a hidden weapon or prepared spell on me. I did not expect her to smile, though, not l like this. This was no gloating grin oozing arrogance, no smirk twisting her lips as she chastised my stubborn refusal to yield in exasperated disappointment. She looked sad, for me. 'Still not submitting, Ryz...when are you going to stop hurting yourself?'

'Better me than you lot. At least I know what I'm doing.' A bolt of lightning, born from the combined memories of ten thousand thunderstorms, ran down the length of my blade, before turning back to wrap around it again, crackling. 'Let me go, or I will bring this damned place down on your head, give it to the sea. You will never trap another soul again.'

Her hands moved to her sides as she took a step closer, hips swaying. I inwardly sighed. Still attempting to seduce me...? Some women had an inherent grace when it came to striding, and then there were those you could tell were exaggerating their movements. Much like garish makeup or uselessly large weapons and codpieces, it reeked of insecurity. Or tastelessness, depending on the person.

'You have bitten off more than you can chew. You are simply yet to realise it,' she declared. 'Serene Rest made this inescapable space as a cage, just for you, and you think you can resist its advances?'

I huffed. 'If it is so powerful, how come I'm still on my feet, not on my knees? I-' But there was no more time to speak, for the fog under my boots morphed into a thick, squamous substance, which I began falling through far faster than my weight should have warranted...no, not falling. I was being pulled!

I grit my teeth behind a closed mouth, which I soon covered with magic; the last thing I wanted was to swallow whatever this thing was. Coverings of transparent mana appeared over my nose, ears and eyes, allowing me to keep track of my surroundings while hopefully protecting me.

'You must know you cannot escape, Ryzhan.' Aina's voice was as clear as a bell, for all I was buried under yards of flesh denser than any metal or stone. As I tried to "swim" upwards, ripping through the obstacle with my legs and weapons alike, I saw that what I had mistaken for scales were actually bones, pushed close to the surface of the hide that covered whatever this creature was. But the bones weren't long and stout, like I would have expected from such a gargantuan being. Indeed they felt more like gravel, as if someone had beaten the thing to death, though it was as healthy as anything...

My eyes narrowed behind the mana visor I'd crafted. At the same time I focused mana into my staff, blasting downwards so I would go flying, I extended my arcane sense towards the critter, wondering why this ordeal felt strangely familiar. It was not the time I'd met Ib this reminded me of, for all the superficial similarities. The grey being had done little that warranted being compared to this loathsome blob.

No wonder I'd senses so little from the cause of this ordeal! The island must've reused the remnants of the Rested, if they could be called that, in order to craft this thing. The damnable spit of rock could turn the unseen particles that made up gases into solid matter once again. Not unbelievable, with how it could create mock-people and unending prisons, but my lack of surprise at this revelation did little to help me escape.

I should've ripped through the mutilated thing like a missile, propelled by the power of my magic, but it reacted to my every move, turning bonelessly to keep me trapped. Worse, every time I attempted to escape, it grew both harder and more flexible; Serene Rest was not done powering its newest toy.

Blades and spears of bone thrust out from within its mass, digging into my torso, while smaller weapons (or were they talons and teeth?) bit at my joints and throat, causing my to drop my weapons, the bloated mass quickly pulling them out of my perception's range. None of the wounds was deep enough to be mortal, but they were spilled blood and weaken me. I remembered health and more power, trying to free myself, and that was when the island's assault on my mind, not felt since the uneasy truce between me and its emissary, was renewed.

Beleaguered, I could no longer grow my power, and lay bleeding in the grasp of the corpse pile, its fangs a hair away from skewering me to death. With a squelching, inhuman sound that nevertheless managed to sound triumphant, the thing opened, disgorging me so that I landed on my knees, though not without toothed tendrils wrapped around every weak spot on my body. Serene Rest kept striking at my mind, like a sledgehammer hitting a wall, and I think it was only the bladed tentacles that kept me from falling onto my face.

The false Aina knelt before me, chuckling when she saw the hateful glare I levelled at her, and took my head in her hands, pressing her brow against mine. I recoiled at the touch, as if one of those storm-blooded eels had slithered over my skin, but she pulled back to fast for me to bite or headbutt her.

I doubted it would've accomplished anything other than giving Serene Rest a reason to create a new avatar, but small victories were better than none.

The wrought woman grasped my chin, clawed fingers drawing blood. 'Do you have any idea what you've done, fool?' she asked, grabbing my throat with her other hand and squeezing. 'The Rested you broke will have to be brought back, formed into their old bodies. Their minds and spirits will have to be restored, after you so callously spurned them.'

It must've been the first break from an ages-long routine. I had nothing to give her but a proud smirk. The slap it earned turned my head and ripped my cheek open to the bone, making me laugh weakly. 'I've been hit worse by better women. For better reasons, too.'

Aina sniffed. 'If you knew of what Serene Rest is sacrificing to keep you like this, you would not be so flippant.' Each word was punctuated by another hammer blow to my mind. I reeled from them, my body twitching as if they were physical strikes, and something warm and thick began dripping from one eye. Was it bleeding? My vision wasn't darkening, but...

'What is it giving up?' I asked derisively. 'The chance to kill me in one hit?' Sadism fit the place like a glove.

'Ever since your childish attempt to refuse serenity, the Rested have been neglected.'

The Rested...? Ah. She must've mean the ones I hadn't seen. What did neglect even entail for them? Were they remembering their past selves and despairing? That felt too optimistic. Were they instead sitting around aimlessly, like marionettes with their strings cut?

I couldn't help but grin wolfishly. Was the old monster sad it wasn't getting to play anymore? This might've been the first time it had truly been denied.

I hoped it hurt.

'While you rebel against your fate,' she continued, 'they are bereft of Serene Rest's guiding hand. Only its mark keeps them from relapsing into the madness of their former lives.'

'My fate?' I repeated, wheezing under the mental pressure, not to mention that of her hand on my neck. 'I think not.'

'It is the fate of all who come here,' she retorted, eyes turning cold. 'Lower your defences. Let yourself be taken, and this can end. You will never know pain or doubt again. Why do you deny yourself peace?'

Had I been free, I would've wagged a finger at her, but in my predicament, I could only manage a taunting look. 'I will err on the side of spite, I think. But, since we are asking questions, I have one of my own: why don't you relent?' My eyes held her empty, pitiless orbs. 'You must know I will never open my mind to this desecration. I would rather die - what would it take for you to understand that? Your master can kill me,' I dipped my chin to indicate the wicked barbs piercing my flesh, 'and in doing so, admit it couldn't undo a mage who knows his craft.'

I might have been projecting too many human traits unto the island, but considering it enslaved people with no benefit to itself I could see, it must've had something like an ego, a sense of pleasure...something to manipulate. My defiance, like its memory, would irk it. Maybe enough to never try ensnaring another person again, lest they prove unexpectedly powerful? Dying for that would be worth remembering...

'You are not the only soul here.' For someone who looked like she was about to bristle, she sounded remarkably calm. 'Little would be lost if you were struck down here.'

'Indeed,' I acknowledged, 'but how long would that loss linger? Has this marvellous island of yours ever failed to ensnare someone? Could it cope with the failure? How long until its hurt pride undoes it focus, tainting the serenity it wishes to bestow on others? What will happen then?' I smirked. 'I'm sure you will have many chances to find out. After all, I am not the only soul here.'

In my experience, throwing someone's words back in their face during a tense moment is likely to earn you a slap at best in half the cases. Aina squeezed my neck like one of those rubber balls I've seen beleaguered folks use to calm themselves, but she wasn't aiming to kill.

Heh. Knowledge earned through pain was often bittersweet, but this - more confirmation that the island was possessed of humours, like a being of flesh, for the construct had no anger of her own - was worth it. If the construct had gone through with strangling me to death or snapping my neck, only to show her frustration after...I was sure my soul would've been quite cross, whatever god's side it ended at.

Aina let go, stood up and stepped back, at the same time the island ceased hammering at my mind. Its flesh pile of a slave did not let go, but I did not need movement to work my magic. Remembering myself healthy, I looked up at the mock-woman, looking for a sign of her thoughts, but her expression was indecipherable, just as her hidden self was veiled from my arcane sense.

My heart finished beating once by the time she finished deliberating, during which I let myself peer inwards to contemplate Vhaarn. I hardly had a choice: with my magic sharpening my perception of time, this heartbeat felt like a year and a half.

'Let us make a deal, then,' Aina said - and this time, there was nothing womanly, or indeed human, in her voice. It sounded like a grand avalanche, the though of sound one of the larger Seaworms might produce. 'You will be allowed to go...as our herald.' Serene Rest, for the thing speaking to me could be nothing else, flashed me a smile with all the warmth of a stone carving. 'You will tell those who have grown weary of Midowrld about this refuge, and they will come to us.'

I groaned, partly to test my voice now that my flesh had healed. 'If I am to drag every new face I meet here like a hunting dog, you might as well kill me now.'

'That will not be necessary,' the island replied. 'The promise shall be enough, you will see. Besides,' its chuckle was like boulders down a mountain, 'it is not like you could find your way back if you wanted to, no? You did not even arrive by yourself. Your vessel did all the work.'

The tendrils let go, and the thing they belonged to slithered through the floor as if it were the surface of a pool, likely going wherever its master had bid it to wait until it could be broken apart into its component Rested. I placed a hand against the floor and pushed myself up. In the same motion, I remembered my cane, which appeared in my grip, either the original stolen away by the shapeless monster or an exact copy.

It did not matter. I had once heard that the unseen things that made up human bodies decayed and were replace every day, but that did not make someone a different person after the whole body was renewed. All I cared about was that I had my weapons.

'That seems a small price to pay for my freedom,' I said cautiously. 'Did you perhaps want to add something?'

Serene Rest made the construct place a hand on its chest. 'We think you misunderstand our desires, Ryzhan. Bringing peace to the harrowed is not a need of ours, not like feeding or drinking is to lesser forms of life. It is something we enjoy, something we excel at - one leads to the other -, but it is something we have to do. Should no one take up your offer...' it shrugged. 'We will not lose anything, truly.'

'And how do you know I will speak to anyone of you? Don't tell me you're counting on my honour...' I stopped rubbing the wrist of my cane-hand to narrow my eyes at the puppet. 'You'd better not have placed something in me to track my progress, or I will-'

'Be quiet,' it said calmly, not that it had the kind of voice you needed to raise. 'We can keep track of matters pertaining to us. You have been here; we will know when you spread the word of our oasis.'

'And if I disagree?' I asked. 'Will you kill me where I stand, then raise my corpse as another of your pet freaks?'

A corner of its mouth curved upwards. 'We do not think you are curious enough to risk that, Ryzhan. Now...'

* * *

Aina

'You might wanna check your breathing, hon.'

'What's wrong with it?' Aina asked bitingly, irritated by Mendax's matter-of-fact voice. How could it be so calm? Her lips had pulled back from needle teeth as soon as Ryzhan was attacked, and her face hadn't brightened since.

'It ain't happening.'

Aina blinked at the words - tried to, then noticed her eyes, rounder and more numerous than before, had no lids. With that came the realisation that she hadn't been breathing for a while, except to speak moments ago. The woman glanced down at herself, at the collection of misshapen limbs that had shredded her dress, and sighed.

'Look away, will you?' she asked, turning from Mendax as she began the slow process of forcing her body back into a human shape. By the end, she'd be naked save for the tatters of her dress, but the change until that point wasn't the sort of thing she wanted a stranger to see.

'Can do,' the Meddler said easily. 'You can relax now, I'd say. Your Ryzhan kept a cool head, didn't he? And he got away, in the end.' Mendax was nodding approvingly, to her annoyance.

'He could've died, you heartless bastard,' she spat. 'And that might've been only the beginning of suffering. You could've saved him with all the ffort of lifting a finger, I know it.'

'Should I have "saved" him when his father was beating him bloody, too? Hmm? When his mother did bugger all but stand by and offer snide commentary?' Mendax shook a finger at her. 'You focus too much on such small moments of time...as if it even exists. Had I intervened now, or then, I'd have stunted his growth as surely as death itself.'

Aina formed an eye on what had been her shoulder, giving the trickster a skeptical look. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his robe (had he always had them?) and leaned back in his chair. 'Magic grows when the trinity of self is challenged,' he continued. 'Body, mind and soul. Do you think his parents were just trying to slake their bloodlust while avoiding murder when they raised him? That was a reason too, yes - but they knew that adversity was one of the best ways to shape him into a strong mage.' A slit of light regarded her from the gloom of Mendax's cowl, the look so piercing she didn't even snap at him for . 'Where do you think he'd be, without that pain?'

Dead. His corpse left in some ditch or alley, or rotting under the waves. Stabbed, throttled, shot, poisoned, crushed - or worse. Aina felt her lungs shrink and straighten, no longer the twisted, elongated things they had become. 'You are saying it was good for him?'

Mendax tossed a small, round thing from one hand to another, almost too fast for her to perceive. She was reminded of those little balls children back home used to slap over a table with wooden paddles. 'It was certainly not bad...' He let the toy drop into his lap, where it disappeared between the folds of his robe as surely as within a whirlpool. 'Now, then. Shall we take a gander at the others?'